The Spice of Life
by Red Squirrel Writer
Summary: Sly Cooper and the gang have some competition, and they got big guns! Who are they and what do they want? Meanwhile, Carmelita gets a new partner intent on making just as big a splash as her! Let the sparks fly!
1. Simple Enough

A/N: I don't own Sly Cooper and co. Sucker Punch does. I own the story. Sucker Punch doesn't. End of story. Now read puny mortal, lest I sic my rabid meerkats of Eternal Annihilation on you!!!111!!1!

On another note, I'd like to request that when ya review, remark on how in character the characters are. I'm just interested in knowing that stuff. Thanks. Freak out!

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London, England

1:30 AM

"Well, whatever that noise was, it's gone now."

"Naw mate, I'm tellin' you! Somethin's up there... I just can't see it..."

"... You do realize we've been issued flashlights, correct?"

"Oh, uh... right."

Sly Cooper, master thief and connoisseur of pizza toppings, thieving techniques, and video games, pressed himself into the shadows of the small niche between the drop off of the wall and the museum's skylight, watching the incriminating beam of light pass him by entirely. The two guards fifty feet below, glaring upwards into the hollow underbelly of the suspended whale skeleton, soon chalked up their criminally busy work schedule to the odd rattling from above and moved on with their route.

Sly sighed with relief and resolved to creep along the small ledge instead of traveling the creature's spinal cord as he had been doing. It made far too much noise. Very soon he had reached the small bridge that connected the second stories of the east and west wings. Crouching down low, cane in paw, he lifted his binocucom and peered down the long, two story hallway of the museum, looking into the fortified front lobby.

"Bentley, I'm in," he whispered. The blocky face and square glasses of his turtle friend flickered into view in the corner of the binocucom's HUD.

"Great work Sly, as per usual. The recon you took earlier was instrumental to me in finding that hole in the security!"

"Yes, I'd say the open window was fairly obvious as a hole..." said Sly with a sardonic grin. Bentley coughed in embarrassment, entirely aware such a simple solution was far below his talent. "Well, the shortest distance between two points..." Sly cut in suddenly. "Don't worry, pal, job's not over yet. There's sure to be at least one more computer for you to hack around here. What's the plan?"

"Well, now that you've already cleared sneaking through the basement to disable the laser beams in the west wing, breaking into the security office to change the guard schedules, helping Murray onto the roof to take down the electrified window frames so you could slip in, garnering the security code for the Pink Panther gem's laser defenses from the security chief, firing off the-"

"Check, check, check, Bentley. Now what's the actual heist?"

"Ah... ahem. Right. Just making sure we didn't miss any details. The robbery of the Pink Panther gem is a symbolic gesture as you know. I'd like to say we're doing this to deduct profits from the bad guys and put it in our pockets, but we haven't found them yet. We need this to go off perfectly if we want our mystery adversaries in the open. We know for certain the Pink Panther gem is their only objective, so stealing it ourselves will let them know we're not out of business yet! And don't touch anything else in there, Sly, I've double checked and it's all legit!"

"What a shame... I see quite a few things already that'd be perfect to touch up our place in Paris."

"Eyes on the prize, Sly. You know this is important. The changes I made in the guard schedules were minor so no suspicions were aroused, but you'll have to be quick. We'll have ten minutes at the most. On my mark, head into the west wing... now!"

Sly dashed forward with the natural agility of a thief, ducking under the archway that led to the recently added to west wing of the museum, keeping low and disturbing nothing more than the dust under his paws, as ordered. He allowed a smirk to drift onto his masked face. Ten minutes! That was more than plenty! He wished it would have been more like five. Bentley always worried too much. That turtle sometimes acted too patronizing, always fretting about this or that. Which was one of the reasons he was so darned loveable. Team dynamics always spiced up life, and if there was one thing Sly liked in his life above all else, it was spice.

"Hang a left here Sly!"

It had been three years since the defeat of Clockwerk, and the gang had just settled into living the high life. Following the defeat of that maniacal buzzard, Sly and company had gone on a flurry of world traveling odysseys, lining their pockets with the hard earned fat of various crime bosses (and even getting to toss a few in the slammer with the unknowing assistance of one Carmelita Fox). Bentley had objected to all this, of course, knowing the dangers of preying on the lesser criminals so soon after downing Clockwerk, but Sly had grown more than confident in their abilities. "The Murray" was always up for new challenges to swat with his impartial Thunder Flopping as well, so Bentley had no choice but to follow along.

However, the loss of direction usually associated with the accomplishment of such a quest left them all vulnerable to their own egos. It only took one small slip up in the field, one line of recon overlooked, and Sly was on the run, dodging bullets from unseen assailants. That was two weeks ago. The team was back on their toes now that they had a new goal to achieve, and it was time for payback for whoever it was that had tried to waste them back in Casablanca for illicitly acquiring a certain Maltese statuette (curiously shaped like a falcon) from the clutches of a certain crime ring.

"Six minutes Sly!" said Bentley.

"I see the door Bentley. Murray, you in place on the roof with the winch?"

The voice of the bombastic hippo blared into Sly's ears, making him wince.

"'The Murray' never fails his pals, pal! I'm in position for a swift and silent getaway!"

In the zone as always, that was Murray. Sly yanked open the door and stared across the tile floor into the moonlit room. It was a large, rectangular space, bare except for a few potted plants, odds and ends, and dead in the middle... the Pink Panther gem. Hadn't he seen this in a movie somewhere? It was enclosed in a glass case which could be easily cut through. Too easy. All he had to do was step forward and...

"Don't take another step!"

Sly might have mistaken the statement for Carmelita Fox, the gorgeous, obsessive police vixen who had been chasing after him for years (on a purely professional basis, of course), if it hadn't been Bentley who said it. He paused in mid stride and spoke into his receiver.

"What's up, Bentley?"

"Someone just turned the alarm systems back on! It'll be impossible to make a straight dash for the jewel now! The whole floor is criss crossed with trip lasers, and the casing's personal lasers are back up as well!"

"Perfect."

"You sound as though you're suddenly uplifted."

"I am! A couple of snags now and then are perfect for moonlit thefts like this. What now?"

"The roof, Sly! Head for the roof and use the winch to drop down onto the casing!"

Three minutes later, Sly was dropping in spread-eagle through the skylight of the room, a thin but strong cord tied around his waist, Murray carefully gauging how far down the raccoon had gone. Sly smirked as he whipped out a small, rectangular computer, his other paw occupied with retaining his cane.

"You sure you made this up all by yourself, Bentley?"

"Now's not the time for sarcasm, Sly, you only have two minutes to allow me to hack the system, remotely disable the security once again, and get out of there before the guards end their patrol in that very room!"

Sly carefully attached the hand held PC onto the casing. Sly typed in a few commands to start the hacking program, careful not to let his sweat touch the apparently pressure sensitive floor. The screen lit up and began flashing figures and numbers incomprehensible to the thieving ringtail as Bentley wormed his way into the wiring.

"Done! Now get the jewel and get out of there!"

Sly reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out his newfangled glass cutter. After attaching it to the case and allowing it to do its magic, Sly pulled the gem from off its pillow rest with a fashionable "Yoink!" and fitted it firmly to a satchel on his chest. Before signaling Murray, Sly whipped out his traditional calling card and left it in place of the gem. Pulling all the gear back into his be-pocketed suit, he gave the thumbs up to Murray, who hoisted him up to freedom. Dashing back over the rooftops, Sly and Murray jumped into the van where Bentley was waiting and sped off into the night, all of them patting each other on the back for showing up the bad guys once again. The gem would be returned later, of course, since it was truly a priceless artifact they didn't dare sell to the black market rings. The mission was a success, and now all they had to do was wait it out for the traditional un-named threat caller and track any traffic on the thieving rings.

Too bad the response would involve really big guns instead.

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A/N: So! How was it? I know it's vague and dumb and... not as good as some other fics on here, I'm sure, but it's my first! Cut me slack! Please? I'll shine your shoes in return if you tell me where you live!


	2. Moonlight Rendevous

A/N: All right, this time I'm getting serious. Seriously. Sorry it was a while to update, they should come faster after this.

Chapter 2

Two weeks later

Paris, France,

Near the Arc de Triumph

Nights in Paris always seemed to have a cliché look about them. Always with the romantic lights glistening off of the moonlit waters, the inspiring point of the Eiffel Tower reaching elegantly into the night sky, breaking through the swelling clouds that trundled freely through across the moon. Not to mention the couples that wandered the streets, open in their love for one another, whispering French to tickle each others' ears.

Two weeks of this. Two weeks of everything that had become nothing. Might as well have become nothing, because since familiarity bred contempt, and all Sly Cooper had been doing was keeping a close watch on the streets since their job with the gem back in London, he had a whole family tree of contempt to look back on. He spoke into the communicator on his shirt collar, stuffing his paws into the pockets of his aviator jacket (bought with their excessive surplus from recent thefts) to keep out the cold, his casual jeans zip-zopping quietly as he moseyed down the street.

"Still nothing, Murray. Keep the engine running, it's freezing tonight." He got only a yawn in response.

"Murray?"

"Oh, uh, right. Sorry. Engine is still hot... Bentley and me can't see a thing. Are you sure this is the place they said we would meet?"

"Have these magnificent specs ever led you astray?" Bentley now said, obviously in reference to his glasses. Sly sighed and leaned against the corner of a diamond shop, eyeing the merchandise. Now that was probably something they would get quite the good return on, unlike the shady deals they'd been haggling over Thiefnet. Sly shook himself quickly.

No... that wasn't what he was. He was not a thief. Well... he was a thief, but not the sort of thief that made violent break-ins on innocent diamond sellers. He only stole things from people that deserved it.

Sly shook his head once more. This wasn't working out.

"Bentley, let's call it a night. He's not coming."

"No, Sly! You know how important this is! We're staying until I can confirm he's not in the country."

"I'm freezing my tail off, Bentley."

"Are you saying you'd rather be stealing what we need?"

"Yes. One, it would be warmer than this. Two, it would be a lot more fun."

"You always think of risking your life as fun."

"C'mon Bentley, I'm not in the mood for this... I just- wait a minute."

"What? What is it?"

Sly didn't answer. He turned into the surprisingly clean alleyway next to the diamond shop in alert silence. He had smelled something. It smelled entirely natural, but the context in which he smelled it didn't seem too assuaging to his already heightening senses. The scent of blood didn't usually waft up from trash cans, anyway. Except maybe in New York.

Sly inched down into the alley, glancing from left to right, constantly scanning, looking for ways that would afford him a quick getaway. Fire escape. Leap up the dumpster over the fence at the end of the corridor. Back the way he came, of course. That broken window to the side, as well. Door into the kitchen of the restaurant next to him.

Stars above, that smell was just awful!

The expert thief looked cautiously at the trash can at his side. This had to just be something small. A tourniquet abandoned in a rush to the hospital, or something equally coincidental. But it was just too strong to ignore. Sly's paw inched outwards, grasping the lid. He paused. What if it was something he didn't want to see? Oh, stop it, he told himself. You saw your own parents... well, what difference does this make, anyway?

He threw it open, and yelled. Oh yeah. Definitely a big difference here.

"Sly! What is it?! What's wrong?" yelled Bentley rather painfully into his ears.

Sly was too busy grasping at his chest and gulping in air from the shock he had received. Thank goodness nobody had heard that... the last thing he needed was some poor chap jumping in to help and suddenly coming across... that thing in the garbage.

"Bentley?" said Sly, his voice rather shaken. "I, um... I found our contact."

"Oh. Well... why the big scare?"

"He's... in a trash can."

"Well I knew he enjoyed staying secretive and all that, but still-"

"Bentley... he's dead."

Silence for the moment. Bentley's voice came again. Murray hadn't said a word; he was more than likely looking to the turtle for inspiration or an explanation.

"Did you say..." said Bentley.

"Yes," replied Sly.

"In a trash can?" asked Bentley in a rather flat voice.

"Shot. Dead. It... isn't pretty."

"I wouldn't imagine... but... why?"

"I don't know. There's... did they know?"

"That's impossible Sly, they couldn't! I took every precaution! I would at least get a suspicion if someone was trailing us!"

"Well, apparently, they... wait. There's some paper. It's been stuffed in next to him..."

Bentley's acute mind quickly dissected the situation. His voice was a bit higher pitched than usual, and far faster; Sly could tell he was blanching. Speaking fast was Bentley's way of staying calm. "Well, then we were obviously meant to find it. They wouldn't just... do that... to a person and leave him there, especially if they knew we wanted to meet with him. You'd better take it, Sly. It might be a note of some sort."

Sly gulped quite audibly. He wasn't exactly a stranger to death, but he didn't like getting too familiar with it. Killing was the mark of an amateur in thievery, and he had avoided it wherever at all possible. Come to think of it, he couldn't recall a single instance where he had killed anyone, or at least wanted to remember it. Consequently it was something of a shock to see someone missing half of their head and stuffed ignobly into a trash can. At least the poor rat was dead... he wouldn't care if he was in a trash can anymore. Gingerly, Sly reached out, snatched the blood-spattered paper, and yanked his paw back like the body would come back to life demanding his brains. He opened the crumpled wad and saw a few letters scribbled in coherent order across the yellow surface.

"We have what you were looking for. Arc de Triumph, one hour from now. On the dot, or no deal."

"Well what the heck is that supposed to mean, 'no deal'?" said Murray after Sly related the simple message, obviously already fine with forgetting the incident with the body. Bentley and Sly were perfectly all right with that as well. Sly moved away from the alley, dropping the paper into a storm drain. The poor guy in the alley would have to wait for him to be recognized on the evening news. Sly would look for his name. No one deserved to die without at least someone knowing who he was.

"Bentley! What time is it?" said Sly, his voice clipped. Back to business as usual, for now.

"1:30 AM!"

59 minutes later

"2:29 AM!"

"On the dot, it said... this better be worth it," growled Sly. If this was just some sort of prank, he wasn't laughing. Then again, if they wanted what they were looking for, they had to take this chance. It was far too important to pass up. Sly dodged into the shadow under the Arc de Triumph, making nary a sound as he crossed the dew-laden grass. The traffic all around the area was congested as usual and Sly longed to observe the city from his beloved rooftops again. How else did a thief travel than by the renowned "Thief's Highway" of the rooftops? The name could be applied anywhere there were buildings close enough to be easily accessible from one to the other.

Sly crouched out of instinct. A shadow slipped out into the moonlight, but did not fade. The raccoon latched his gaze onto it and watched, remaining quiet as a wraith. Suddenly a voice came from within the folds of the walking shadow.

"I know you are there ringtail," it said with no small amount of confidence. It was a small voice that spoke like it was ten feet tall, with a hint of sibilance in its tone. It was most certainly a male of some sort, but Sly could see neither ears nor tail in the inky black patch he was standing in. "Come out of your hiding," he commanded sharply. Sly did not waste time with wondering how he had been seen. Technology allowed all the explanation he needed. He came out of his defensive crouch, tail twitching behind him.

"You're the one that left the note... and the murder," accused the raccoon.

"He was unnecessary. I've come to give you what you asked for."

Sly snorted loudly, in direct derision of the creature's enigmatic nature. "Drop it with all this speaking in riddles slop. I'm not in the mood for talking in shades of grey... so what now? You here to just kill me too?"

"I will give you what you asked for. Now." The male tossed a briefcase to the ground, and they both watched it clatter several feet away from Sly's feet. Sly did not move forward to take it. Murray and Bentley hadn't said a word. He couldn't even hear their breathing. They must have been waiting with bated breaths, just as he. Sly allowed his brown eyes to fall on the lustrous metal of the case. He took a single step forward, paw beginning to move forward.

"Careful Sly," said Murray suddenly, which stopped him in his tracks. "It could be a trap," agreed Bentley. Sly was rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the briefcase. His breathing had speeded up just slightly.

Give you what you asked for...

He took another step forward, eyes now on the male creature. His paw inched forward. A cold sweat began to bead on his skin, conflicting thoughts rushing through his head. He could hear his own heart beating against his chest as he heard himself argue with himself.

It's a bomb; I'll die the moment it opens...

But what if it's what we wanted? It could be our only chance...

Don't take it! A smart thief is a live thief!

A smart thief takes what he wants...

Being dead isn't very smart...

I should take it.

No!

What's stopping me? I'll take it now!

It's too risky.

I'm Sly Cooper! My middle name is risk!

If we die, it's all your fault.

Sly's paw was centimeters away, he could feel the blood rushing, the sweat soaking, the cold air blowing, the clock ticking...

Now!

Sly touched it, eyes clenched shut.

Nothing happened. Sly allowed the trapped breath to release. He glanced up at the other creature. He hadn't done a thing. Sly didn't know why, but he could tell he was smiling.

"You're awfully hesitant for a thief of your caliber."

"I've always worked on instinct," retorted Sly sharply, eyes locked on the creature. The other male chuckled, seeing the raccoon did not notice the squad cars pulling up in a semi-circle around the monument...

"And what do your instincts tell you?"

"They tell me-"

"FREEZE, COOPER!"

Sly whirled, grabbing up the briefcase and holding it tightly to his chest. The other male dashed off into the street, leaving only a trail of dust in its wake. Sly held up an arm across his brow to shield his eyes from the brightness of so many headlights pinning him in a fiery halo. There, laid in front of him, was every thief's worst nightmare... a flotilla of police and members of Interpol, all with stun guns (and a few real ones!) pointed directly between his squinting eyes.

And there, standing in the middle, was the silhouette of a fox that Sly would recognize anywhere, anytime. He grinned widely, his former shock now being overtaken in a flying tackle by his natural boldness and rash disposition.

"Why, Carmelita Fox!" he said jovially. "What's a spitfire like you doing out on a cold night like this?"


	3. It's Like Dangerous

Carmelita Montoya Fox was in a severe mood of high anxiety. She always seemed to get this way when Sly Cooper was in her grasp. For five years now, six long, lonely years she had been running herself ragged trying to catch that arrogant ringtail Cooper, and every time she had gotten close... he had slipped away like a wraith. Well, no more, she said to herself, not remembering she had said that every time she encountered the raccoon. No more would he make a fool of the one and only Carmelita Fox!

"You have nowhere to run this time, Cooper!" she snapped, ignoring Sly's first attempt at conversation. She had a gun, half the Parisian police forcebehind her, and the object of her obsessive hatred right in front of her. She was in no mood to bandy words this time, a thought which seemed to cross Sly's mind. He put on a look of half-fake disappointment.

"Well gee, Miss Fox," he said in an exaggeratedly adolescent tone, "don't you want to just talk this out over some coffee? I know a great little place just around the corner-"

"Shut up!" yelled Carmelita, surprised herself at how angry she sounded. That voice of his almost always managed to set her off, somehow. One or two of the officers raised their eyebrows at her, and Carmelita shook herself and regained her composure.

"I have nothing to say to you, ringtail, except that you're under arrest!"

Sly began contemplating her unforseen zeal. Usually he could at least keep her vaguely distracted with his jargon, but now she seemed even more determined than usual. Probably because it obvious even to Sly that his chances of escape were slim. Of course, that in itself could be turned in his favor... if Bentley would stop yelling in his ear.

"Sly! What are you doing? Get moving! You need to escape now! Why are you waiting?! Sly! Answer me! Sly! Sly!!! Sl- mmpmh!" Murray grabbed the hysterical turtle and clamped a hoof over his mouth.

"Shh! Sly can take care of himself!" he said with his usual confidence in his smaller companion. "We need to watch out for ourselves!" This seemed to put some sense back into Bentley as he realized their precarious situation. The van they were situated in was hardly three blocks from the commotion. Sly was on his own for the moment.

Not that he didn't enjoy a moment alone with Carmelita, of course. It was at this moment the plan struck Sly in the face. Still hugging the briefcase to his chest, he sighed in apparent dejection, and looked up with a shrug.

"Well detective, I guess you have me," he said simply. Carmelita flinched in irritation and confusion. What was heyammeringabout now? He never said that unless he had something up those sleeves of his!Carmelitablinked, and ran her tongue over her lips, dry with excitement, trying to work out a response to this. She knew he loved to talk, and she had her own ideas. Perhaps if she humored him he would do something rash in thinking he had the advantage.

"Uh... yes. Yes! That's right, I do." Sly almost smirked to himself. She was already slightly off guard. He started moving forward hesitantly, but saw that Carmelita's grip on her shock pistol tightened considerably, her eyes on the case. He grinned disarmingly.

"Now now, miss Fox, you don't think this is... some sort of bomb?" he exclaimed with a chuckle. "You know me. I may be the most daring guy in Paris, but I'm not stupid." Normally, a regular police officer would suspect him immediately of mental imbalance, but Carmelita did know him quite well... well enough to know his seemingly suicidal tendencies were not meant to hurt himself. What could he be thinking?

"Stay right there, Cooper."

"Oh come on, Carmelita," said Sly, inching forward as he spoke. "What possible chance do I have of getting out of this? You know me, Carmelita, I'm a smart guy. I know when discretion is the better part of valor most of the time! I can't do anything short of killing myself, which I won't do, and you know it." Carmelita was still stuck on figuring out his words instead of noticing how close the racoon was getting. Then Sly started getting confusing.

"You've finally gotten me stuck, miss Fox. I've lost, and you won. I wonder what the newspapers will say?"

"Newspapers?" muttered Carmelita. That might hold some water there... Sly Cooper was one of the most wanted people on the planet. And here he was, about to be captured! She could see the headlines now. Sly Cooper busted by dogged Inspector! Crime spree ended overnight!

"Stop right there!" yelled a wolf on Carmelita's right. Both she and Sly ignored him.

"You know, I'm a theatrical at heart," he said. "Don't you think it would just be so dramatic if you were the one to slap the cuffs on me after all these years?"

"Eh?" said Carmelita, not exactly comprehending. She was still thinking about those newspapers.

"What I mean is... I just hold up my paws, and you come make the arrest." said Sly, now only a few dangerous feet away. Carmelita smirked. This may be a trick, but she wasn't falling for it. She was ready for anything tonight. Even if that dastardly racoon tried something, he was covered by forty policemen and their vehicles. It would be a picture perfect finish. She stepped forward, holding out the cuffs in one paw, and Sly smirked.

"Now... I just... put up my paws..."

And the gun flew away from Carmelita's stunned paw. Sly dodged forward, his actions a blur. After smacking away the weapon with his case, he grabbed away the cuffs and linked Carmelita's own paws together. He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around, taking out her real gun and pointing it dangerously into her back. Carmelita froze on instinct. This wasn't like him! He never used guns, much less pointed them at others... especially her of all people. But Sly was rather desperate. He had more pressing matters on his mind, such as catching up to that mysterious figure that had tossed him the case. And catching up to Murray and Bentley before he was hauled away. This alone probably added about fifty years to the numerous life sentences he had slapped on him.

Slowly, he started backing up with Carmelita in tow, who had gritted her teeth and sounded absolutely furious, the way she was breathing. Her paw stunglike it was covered in angry bees, andthe pain was like a tidal wave trying to bowl her senses over. Once more, her anger pulled her through."Cooper!" she snarled, unable to think of anything else to growl at him. "Wow, Inspector, I don't think you ever got that excited before when you said my name," he said with a smirk. Carmelita felt like screeching in frustration. This was simply unacceptable! How? How did he move so fast? How on earth did she let her mind become so clouded? Now she was unarmed, incapacitated, virtually harmless, and furious beyond rational reason. Sly hid behind her frame to keep the advancing officers from getting a good shot.

He only needed to line himself with the alley across the way, and he would be relatively home free.

"Sorry, Inspector," Sly whispered with intentional huskiness into her ear, making it tingle, "but I have a very pressing appointment that not even your beauty could distract me from. And yes... safety first, Carmelita." He laughed and shoved her forward, dashing to the left as he dropped the disabled pistol, feeling shock bolts and bullets whiz by his head. Rolling and hopping to keep his body aspastically moving target, he locked his eyes on the alley before him. Despite the undue (in his opinion) amount of stress, Sly was the type of man who worked under pressure, and this didn't bother him too much. A Sedan screeched to a halt in front of him in an attempt to cut him off, but it was not colored as a police vehicle, and there were no lights flashing from the windows. Obviously he had the privilege of garnering undercover work on him. It was a flashy, classic move that car was doing, attempting to either break Cooper's legs as he ran into the car or bowling him over and hopefully giving him something less of a concussion. The racoon only leapt deftly over the hood, rollingpainfully over the curb into the shadows of Paris's back streets.

Carmelita was left stunned, flustered, and furious in the relative silence that followed. One of her fellow officers, a lithe ferret named Roger, was brushed aside the moment he had freed Carmelita's paws from the cuffs, which were now pointing frantically in the direction Sly had run off to.

"Don't stand there gaping! He's getting away!" she spluttered as she stumbled to her feet and grabbed the nearest handgun, jumping into the alley in hot pursuit of her prey.

Almost immediately after, a male fox slipped out of the Sedan and drew his 9mm from its holster at his trim waist. His cerulean gaze, however, was not on Carmelita, Sly, or any of the other officers around him as he dashed down the scum ridden stone way.

His eyes were on the rooftops.

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Judging from the silence in his communicator, Sly deduced that Bentley and Murray had, intelligently enough, cut all communication and hightailed it from the area. Very good. They wouldn't be traced if Bentley shut off his electronic tracking devices, which the tortoise more than likely had done.

Now Sly had only to concentrate on keeping his tail out of jail and finding the man that had slipped him the briefcase he still clutched to his chest. The shouts of Fox and theother officers were far behind now, and doubtless they would expand out in a fruitless search to find the elusive racoon. Sly swore that they were getting sloppier every time he encountered them, if he could slip away this easily. He supposed that's what he got for living in France.

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Atop the roof of a two-story café, Fedor Alekseevich smiled underneath his grey mask, lowering the binoculars he had been using to track Sly's progress. Cooper had no idea that he was holding onto his death with, ironically enough, all the life in him. It was an easy drop, actually. The 'coon had an ego the size of a blimp, and rashness to boot. The Siberian Husky had watched calmly as Sly did his usual routine of outwitting Fox and getting into an obligatory chase. He and his associates had been watching the thief for some time, and knew he never passed up an opportunity, especially when one feigned a release of what was stolen from him. Anything to patch up the poetic justice in that; the world's greatest thief getting something of his own stolen.

He lifted his radio and spoke into it, his heavy Russian accent splintering his words.

"_Da. _He has the package. Fox and Cornwallis are in pursuit. Do we proceed to kill three birds with one stone? All right."

It was time to show his associates he was more than capable.

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The fox watched asa husky appeared seemingly from thin air, and promptlyleapt from cover in a side alley. Eyes narrowed, he darted off Sly's course and made way for the new arrival. He had no idea who the dog was, but he was more than determined to find out. As he ran he lifted a finger to the communicator on his collar, and depressed the round speaker which activated it. After a moment of waiting for the static to clear, he spoke aloud into the air.

"Peter, I've got an unknown on scene. Possible Conduit observer."

"Roger," came the alto answer. "Tell me again why didn't we get spotters for this op? We all know the Parisian police aren't the most adept... and I won't mention Interpol."

"It's very simple," answered the fox. "When you work for one of the most advanced intelligence agencies in the world, with access to top-secret prototype technology, everyone expects you to know how to do things the hard way," muttered the fox distractedly. The man in grey was slipping away, and if he wasn't careful, the fox himself would slip right into the pavement.

"Oh, right," continued Peter on the other end, "it'll be one hell of a resume, though. Oh wait, I forgot! We don't get resumes because we die if we try to retire before we're senile!"

"Pete, kinda in the middle of a chase here..."

"Right. GPS shows Sly and Fox on a path parallel to you. Whoever he is, this guy you're after is either insane or the exact person we're looking for. Stay sharp."

"Like a friggin' knife..."

------------------------------------

Carmelita could see Sly Cooper not twenty feet away. She could _see _him! Within shooting range! Without a second thought, she ripped out her pistol and opened fire, all of the rage she had felt before coming to a head. All those idiotic, romantic words he had spouted just to make sure she would come off her guard, all the times he had slipped away with that annoying grin on his face, that infuriating flash of his ringed tail, all of it!

And above all... that kiss. In the middle of Clockwerk's hideout, he had given her the ultimate in humiliation. That memory was the anvil that broke the camel's back. Oh, she was going to make him pay for that.

Sly yelped as a bullet shattered the corner in front of him, showering him with fragments of brick and mortar. What on earth was wrong with that woman? Those were real bullets she was firing! Making a mental note never to allow them to make visual contact for several months, he began looking desperately for a way out. He had to dodge down another alley, the one coming up ahead, and then hop up a fire escape and pray Carmelita wasn't going as fast as he thought she was.

"He turned a corner, still on him!" yelled the fox.

Fedor smiled as he watched Sly come into view, and increased his sprint to the point that things began to blur on the edges of his vision. He was upon the raccoon in a flash as Sly slowed to turn the corner.

------------------------------------

Sly never saw the blow coming. He only felt a whoosh as air was compressed and shoved out of his lungs as Fedor's outstretched arm collided with his chest, shoving him backwards down the alley several feet with the husky's momentum, out of sight of Carmelita for the moment.

The husky was off into the darkness before Sly hit the ground, cracking his head on the pavement, making stars dash in front of his eyes and fireworks explode in his head. Raising his head with a groan, he watched as Carmelita turned the corner, another fox desperately trying to skid to a stop behind her before...

"Watch out there, you and Fox are gonna-! Oh. Ow."

Carmelita didn't know she was falling until her chin collided with the ground very painfully indeed, tearing a ragged cut across the bottom and inundating her face with mud and smelly water, which combined to make her nearly unrecognizable. Her characteristically flamboyant anger was enough to only make her annoyed at the sudden turn of events, and she instantly rolled over and elbowed the one who had fallen on her (and was struggling to right himself), yelling furiously at him.

"You stupid, idiotic oaf!" she snapped, her Spanish accent coming to light easily with her exasperation. "Half-brained imbecile! Get off me _NOW!"_

The fox who had been lying on her grunted as he felt Fox's elbow connect with his gut, rolling away and covering his face and clothing with grime.

Sly suddenly turned frantic as he realized he had dropped the case. He cast about in the dirty puddles in a panic, eyes wide and movements uncoordinated from the throbbing, insistent pain in the back of his head that wrapped around his entire cranium and crushed it with a vice-like grip. Finally, he grabbed a hold of the silvery metal of the briefcase, Carmelita's shouting muted in his ears. Panting, he felt a sudden obligation to open it right then and there. It was one of those spur-of-the moment decisions made when one's life was in danger, and adrenaline was the only fuel in the blood. He didn't think, he simply acted on what his gut told him to do.

And immediately he decided he would never listen to his gut again. On the bomb that was firmly planted in the velvet lining of the briefcase, red numbers marched inexorably with sickening acceptance towards detonation.

_Ten_

Sly noticed a piece of paper folded and placed neatly next to the clock. Again acting without thinking, he pocketed it.

_Nine_

Carmelita had succeeded in pushing away the other fox and was stumbling to her feet, yelling Sly's surname at the top of her lungs.

_Eight_

Sly jumped up and kicked the briefcase into the wall in his rush to get away. Carmelita noticed the numbers and was stopped dead in her tracks, horrified realization flooding her senses. This was certainly not part of the plan. In an instant, hundreds of theories rushed through her head, each more ridiculous than the last. Sly planted it. Someonetracking Sly wanted to kill him with it. Sly found it in a trash can prompted by a shady criminal organization. Lastly, she considered the fact that fate simply did not like her and wanted to make her life as miserable as possible.

_Seven_

The other fox seemed far less surprised than Carmelita at the sight of the bomb as he struggled to maintain his balance and suck in painful gulps of air, a result of Carmelita's pummeling. He yelled something incomprehensible at Fox as she stared at both the retreating figure of Sly and the bomb's merry counting, an innocent _beep!_ accompanying each change of the numbers.

_Six_

The other fox got to his feet and lunged for Carmelita, grabbing her around the waist and pulling backwards to a nearby dumpster, its rusty corner just peeking out behind the corner of the last alleyway.

_Five_

He flung them both behind the wall and unceremoniously fell into the pavement again, keeping a tight grip on Carmelita as he kept them both pressed into the ground.

_Four_

Sly ran with burning lungs and a pounding head. He had no idea how powerful the blast would be, and was not going to be the first to find out.

_Three_

Fedor, though he was two blocks away in an abandoned apartment room, still pressed himself against a wall and covered his ears.

_Two_

Everyone wondered why the bomb wasn't exploding.

_One_

A moment of silence before the storm.

The detonation device clicked, and with a tremendous roar, a beautiful orange flower blossoming into the night sky. There was no dramatic bang, simply a continuousrumble that went on uninterrupted for several seconds. All of the glass windows nearby were shattered, sprinkling the street with a cascading shower of deadly fragments. Dirt, dust, and smoke blotted out everything soon after.


	4. Aftermath

1The first thought that ran through the minds of the law enforcement officers that had accompanied Carmelita on the way as they came up out of cover was that Fox was dead. That explosion had engulfed several of the buildings surrounding it, and fires had sprouted up where burning wreckage had fallen. The smoke still had not cleared, and somewhere somebody was screaming in pain. Interpol and Parisian officers stared dumbfounded at one another as the blaring wails and screeching horns of fire engines and ambulances crept closer. One more blast of their horns shook the officers from their collective stupor, and they went to help the injured. A few stayed behind to search out Fox and the others who had followed Sly into the inferno. The explosion had wiped out the café and clothing store near it, leveling them into stunted piles of rubble. Their far walls were still standing, but the damage was severe enough.

Eleven people were injured, five critically. Glass shards, concussions, contortions, and all manner of macabre injuries were witnessed by the medics that arrived on-scene. All of them were thankful none of the casualties were children; the wide geography of injuries meant they wouldn't have lasted five minutes, let alone the rest of the night.

Fedor Alekseevich looked through the blown window of the apartment across the way and grimaced. The bomb had served its purpose, at least. It sent a message of how dangerous he and his associates were, and the lengths they were prepared to go. It would certainly shake that damn Cornwallis a bit. Hopefully, though, this would be the extent of their extra black-market interactions. Any more displays like this would be detrimental to the effort. The husky lifted his radio and whispered harshly into it.

"I must leave. No sign of Cooper, Fox, or Cornwallis. I am of belief that they survived. _Da._ It is messy, as we hoped. I am returning now."

With a flash of his grey cloak, he was out of sight and lost to darkness.

------- --------- --------- ------ ----

As the situation was slowly cleared in Paris, through the trickle of officers returning through the black haze, collars over their snouts and coughing uproariously, it was soon determined that none of them had been hurt, and after a harsh twenty minutes of maneuvering the ambulances, medics, fire engines, and critical cases, they all began to wonder where exactly were Fox and the unknown man who had gone in after the rest. They waited with bated breath, ignoring the news cameras and media vans that had stationed themselves in the least convenient locations possible. A fairly attractive ferret lady was already reporting live.

"... and no, Tracy, there have been no reports of fatalities yet. Eleven people have been grievously wounded as a result of this strange and heinous act; unfortunately all of them were civilians. The Parisian police force is still regrouping from the shock of the blast. There is speculation as to whether Sly Cooper, the infamous racoon thief and once again the object of tonight's chase, was responsible, but until all officers have reported back to give a clear account, we cannot... hold on, apparently the last two are arriving. Yes, I can see Carmelita Fox herself, of recent fame for the apprehension of the Klaww Gang... there is another with her, I don't quite recognize him..."

And so, last of all, but obviously determined not to be least due to the ridiculous amount of grime, dirt, and soot that covered them and their clothes, as well as the volume of their bellowing coughs, the two missing foxes arrived, walking more or less side by side. They looked at each other, both in full view of the other officers, and then Fox proceeded to give her own dramatization of the recent blast.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking back there, you jerk?!?" she snapped. "How could you do something as ridiculous and thoughtless as... as that?! I ought to arrest you for obstruction of justice!" She then petulantly shoved the male back several steps. His cerulean eyes grew wider than dinner plates as he tried to comprehend why he was being assaulted for just helping to save a life. Taking several deep breaths as he tried to keep his composure, he failed, and was quickly on the counterattack, waving his gun about emphatically. His voice had no discernable accent, but it could be taken to be vaguely English. Both of them seemed to forget the many pairs of eyes on them, and one or two of the officers present winced as they realized the media had turned their full attention to the next commotion. From one bomb to the other.

"Wha... how could... you... I... I was _thinking _of saving your life you ungrateful tart! Though considering how you're reacting, I'm seriously doubting the wisdom in that next time opportunity arises!"

"I was this close, you _baboso_ twit," she countered, holding her thumb and index finger close for emphasis, _"this close _to catching the world's most infamous thief! Then you come in with a decision to go chivalric and throw me into a puddle of stinky pond scum!"

"If you kept chasing that ringtail, you would be splattered over well more than half of Paris! If you weren't so idiotic about your job and value of life, you'd realize how close you just came to _dying!_ I just kept you from becoming tomorrow's roadkill, hotshot!"

Carmelita spluttered for a moment before changing the subject quickly, unwilling to concede to any point. "Well... well what were you _doing _here, anyway?"

"My _job,_ what else? I could ask the same of you!"

"Interpol is magic, how else were we here? We simply_ happened _to be following an anonymous tip! Graggh, you... you stupid, idiotic little-!" She buried her face in her paws and yelled in frustration. This was beyond humiliation. She had been so close, she knew it! It was within arm's reach! Well, slightly beyond that, but this impulsive... man had to ruin it all! This always happened! Every single time, every last chase, every last chance to catch that ringtail ended because of some freakish coincidence like this! The bomb had been the last straw. Carmelita felt herself snap, and her eye twitched.

"Tip?" mouthed the male silently, his brow furrowing in confusion.

He was interrupted from further altercations by a swift right hook to his left temple by Carmelita. He staggered on the spot and dropped his gun, having never expected a hit like that, nor for it to actually make him stumble, and put his paw to the spot, his mouth hanging open incredulously. He looked back at Fox like she had shot him, then his eyes narrowed and he shoved her roughly backwards. She yelped in anger, then returned the gesture. They went back and forth for another round before the male leaped on Carmelita and pushed her to the ground, grabbing her collar and getting ready to knock some sense into her before Carmelita looked to the side and gasped. The male followed her gaze, fist drawn, and noticed all of the cameras now fixated on their quarrel. He dropped Fox, whose head cracked sharply against the ground, and stood up, straightening his clothing and clearing his throat. Carmelita stood up and groaned, rubbing at the back of her head. They both attempted to be as presentable as circumstances allowed.

"Uh... yes. My... associate and I have had a slight... divergence in opinions as to the... preferable procedure of our chase. Simply a... slight matter of disagreement... cleared up perfectly now, I'd say." The fox coughed nervously as he searched for another way to defuse the situation. A voice crackled in his ear.

"Discretion's the better part of valor here. Exit stage left."

The fox began stepping away, Carmelita alternating between tenderly rubbing her aching head, glaring at the male, and blazing hate at the cameras, which she despised. They only spread the rumor of her already widely supposed incompetence. At least she could get out of here now. Blushing furiously at the knowledge of her outburst being caught on tape (not the outburst itself), she quickly strode back to the awaiting Interpol officers for a medical checkup.

The male left in the horse he had rode in on, and nobody asked any questions, which was fine with him.

------ ----- ------ ---- ------ ---

"Sly? Oh, thank goodness! I thought you were dead! Hurry, get in! And what's that paper you have?"

"No questions Bentley Murray just drive!" shouted Sly as he rolled into the back of the van. Murray complied and they were off like a bullet. There was a tense silence in the car as Sly lay on the cold floor, panting heavily. Never in his life had he experienced such a scare.

It was bad enough that a husky had the nerve to come out of nowhere and attack him. It was even worse that he had been betrayed by someone he didn't even know existed. Actually, he knew that much, because if his rival was not existent, he couldn't have done the betraying.

That still didn't help matters, he griped at himself. Bentley's voice suddenly made him snap his head up.

"Did you get anything out of this? No clues? Anything?"

Sly looked at the crumpled paper in his paw, sighing with disappointment.

"Just this..." he said despondently, unfolding it quickly. On it was scribbled several words in neat cursive.

_You asked for it._

Sly would have laughed if he wasn't feeling so frustrated and fatigued. He shook his head and observed the paper more closely, simply praying for their to be something, anything to help him. And there it was, in small print, thick black ink making it nearly illegible. It was there, though, and all they had.

_125497854026_

_Munchen_

Sly looked up and breathed deeply, looking up into Bentley's thick glasses.

"Get on Thiefnet, look up this number. Murray, change of plans. We're going to Germany."


	5. Breaking News

1A/N: Apologies to people who take this as a rip-off. Frankly, this is the first story I've written with considerable political intrigue, and I had to start somewhere. And it's not entirely the same, you'll see.Don't judge a book by the cover. And I did spend like an hour looking up major Russian oil sites and numbers and found almost nothing... if anyone has good links to information in any way related to such things, please give them in your review, and you'll receive a special cyber cookie.

----- ----- ---- ---- ---- -----

The fires raged all night, sprouting up just before midnight and never ceasing to grow higher and burn hotter, and from grim estimates it would apparently go on for most of the week. Over two hundred people had already died fighting the manic blaze, most of them volunteers. The on-site firefighters had simply been overwhelmed by the gross amount of heat and smoke that billowed out from the twisted wreckage. Containment had only just begun a few minutes ago, and it was soon obvious that over sixty percent of the facility would be lost to the fire. A chain reaction of explosions from nearby tanks that still had not been entirely emptied despite the workers' frantic, heroic efforts soon changed their opinion on that matter. In order for their to be any hope of putting out the blaze, the entire site had to be emptied of oil, and divert it to another facility further west. But first, the fire had to let them get to the oil. Many of the citizens of the city nearby looked on in abject horror from afar, realizing that this catastrophe would offset the entire nation.

Nizhnevartovsk, one of the largest oil supplying facilities to the Russian nation, had just suffered an act of sabotage. The director of the refinery, a tough, blocky ermine, had overseen the brave efforts of the firefighters, soldiers, and civilians in trying to save what they could, but right now it was all in vain. They could only do what they could and hope a miracle lessened the monstrous flames enough to reclaim the pipelines. His face covered in soot, dirt, and blisters, he grabbed up his cellular phone to update the situation, his paw shaking as he raised the device to his lips. He feared the news he had to give.

----- ---- ----- ---- ---- ------

Since last night at one in the morning, Eremeiko Ereemeev Sergushka had received a terrifying phone call while staying at his dacha near Leningrad, and had not gotten any sleep since. Despite being relatively tough as a tall, broad-shouldered wolf with hard hazel eyes, even this was enough to fill his heart with fear. What did it mean for Russia? For the world? Nizhnevartovsk was irreplaceable. How was he going to present this adequately to the Minister and his cabinet? How were they going to take it? It had been a long flight to Moscow considering all that he had in his mind. He had seen the site of the disaster just two hours ago, and fortunately the managers of the refinery had had enough sense to gather up all the information they could as quickly as possible, and the wolf's stay was just over an hour before he was in transit on a plane back to Moscow, where an emergency meeting was assembling at the Kremlin.

His limousine was late, and Eremeiko sent a quick curse to the driver before they set off. Those civilians on the streets were, for now at least, blissfully unaware of the disaster that had befallen their nation. Tapping his claws impatiently on the door's arm rest, Eremeiko placed a reassuring paw on his briefcase that held all of his notes. Notes that, possibly, could outline the doom of the nation. Six months, he thought, six months on the job, and something like this has to happen right when we receive the worst leadership affordable to a country! His paranoia fed dark visions of being disgraced and forced to watch his country turn to madness. With a flash, they were in Red Square, and the vehicle had stopped. The middle-aged wolf stepped out, his thoughts still pumping out new phrases to soften the blow of his words, new statistics he had to mention, among a million other things the bearer of bad news had to think upon. Eremeiko calmed himself, breathing in deep the brisk, freezing air that stole away the warmth in the lungs and shocked him back to the real world. He wasn't paid to ask questions about his work and what it meant. He merely reported the facts as an advisor to the cabinet. His specialty was energy production and distribution. It figured an atrocity like this had to occur in the field he specialized in. Six months! his mind screamed at him.

Moving up the steps of the Kremlin, walls of fluttering snowflakes cutting him off into his own bubble of despairingly private space, he looked at the now dated stone walls, and the ominous windows that glared at him from above. The perfect, symmetric rows reminded him quite a bit of the eyes of the Minister and his cabinet whenever he made a report. It made him shift uncomfortably under the folds of his formal attire whenever he was in front of them; the very thought that so few men could control the destiny of a nation scared him considerably, and he was not afraid to admit to that in the least. They acted as a cohesive force, a body bloated with power, with the Minister as their mouth, and the limbs and tendons the different bureau leaders "under" him.

The worst of it was that they rarely listened to what advisors like Eremeiko had to say. The Minister, who had the power to override them all with a brush of his hand, actually leaned upon them like a drunken man on the wall of his tavern home. He waited upon the rest to bombard Eremeiko with questions, pressing in the attack before slashing into the jugular and committing his commanders to actions that seemed foolish or impossible to take. It seemed almost deliberate, but Eremeiko knew the Minister was too weak to be that malicious. The others, though... they were a new generation. They weren't simply ruthless, they were smart to boot. Those two qualities made even a stout heart like Eremeiko's unsteady.

He was now inside the Kremlin, his boots rustling in the rough fabric of the Oriental carpeting beneath him, the immaculate polish of the wooden walls reflecting two others of himself, and their likenesses were identical in every way. If only it could be that way with those of the cabinet actually focused on the well-being of Russia. Eremeiko could see the situation was not as grim as his maturely cynical mind made it out to be. He had allies, but never dared to speak to them openly. It was an unspoken bond, with simple gestures made and quiet hints given with a wink and a nod that told the wolf "We are with you. Simply keep talking, and we'll see what we can do." It reassured him slightly, but his fears were not assuaged. If a single man was to rule, that man had to live up to certain criteria. Namely not allowing his cabinet to pull him away from what was best for the Rodina.

Swinging his briefcase that held his notes and figures lightly as he walked, he stepped up several flights of stairs, nodding to the salutes the Novogorod Guard placed throughout the building. They were not professional soldiers, however, merely glorified policemen. Their lives were plush and easy. It had become the highest honor to stand around a building full of old men doing nothing all day and being paid at the same time.

Looking into the room made him feel far younger than he looked. The entire assembly was all "young" men of their late fifties, the changing guard with new voices now to be heard. They were all deathly quiet as their drawn faces turned to face the wolf.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said Eremeiko as he handed his coat to an aide, who hurried out of the room. The advisor took his seat, as did the rest of those present.

"Eremeiko Ereemeev, you may begin your report," said the old Minister, a wide ferret with greasy fur, with an abrupt, business-like air. Anything to keep propriety, thought Eremeiko. "First of all," continued the Minister, "we need your clear analysis as to what exactly occurred at Nizhnevartovsk." Eremeiko knew exactly what to say. On the way here to Moscow, three of his aides left at the disaster site updated him almost every minute. He spoke crisply, without hesitation. "Sir Minister, at approximately 11:23 PM last night, the oil refinery of the city of Nizhnevartovsk was attacked and destroyed by four armed male assailants who infiltrated the central control area of the facility and committed a sophisticated, complex act of sabotage."

"And who were these men?" demanded the head of the Defense Bureau, a nasty looking brown bear. "We only have identification for three of them," explained Eremeiko. "All worked as employees of the Nizhnevartovsk refinery, and most were known to be of purely Arabian descent. There is no evidence to suggest their religious affiliations, though a recovered surveillance tape reveals the last shout of one of the attackers was 'Allahu akhbar.'" This set many heads shaking with disgust. "The first of the traitors was identified as a simple electrician. The second was a security checkpoint guard, and the third was identified as a Senior Engineer, name Tevyah Padnik, a Georgian. He orchestrated the explosion that wiped out the refinery with his intimate knowledge of the facility's inner workings. High winds spread the flames before most could even pull the alarms. The last is only seen to be an expert gunman. It is generally theorized that the entire act was committed from the control room, but we have word that not all of the men were present in the central center as the explosions occurred, and careful analysis of security tapes and interviews of workers there have made it clear other explosions were seen and hear moments before the ones we know to have been detonated from the control center. One of the men obviously planted some extra insurance, if you will, to ensure the destruction of the facility. The checkpoint guard allowed them all entrance following the slaying of his comrades by his own hands. An on-site security team reacted quickly following their seizure of the control center, overtaking allthree of the men present and killing them, but not before sufficient damage was done to the distribution of oil throughout the pipes, and the gunshots inflicted on the control panels themselves, that it was irreversible even by the expert engineers brought minutes after the killing of the traitors. The fourth is believed dead. There is no way he could have escaped the fires.

"What about the men that had been currently in the control center?" asked Defense once more, raising his brow critically. "Had they no reaction at all?"

"They were all slaughtered by the traitors, sir, before they could hardly look up from their terminals," said Eremeiko blandly. "The security team acted with all due promptness, I must say, after an interview of their lieutenant. However, the damage to the refinery was already such that two hours after the first explosion the flames completely overran the production fields nearby."

"Well if they reacted so damn efficiently, then why was this attack not prevented? What were these sandy-assed Arabs doing there in the first place?" snapped Defense, laying into the issue with his natural aggression, tangible hatred in his tone of voice.

"The Prime Minister's predecessor allowed for an extension of employment opportunities to expatriates skilled in working with oil refineries to provide for cheaper labor in our under-maintenanced facilities. You will remember one of my colleagues asked for an immediate change of this policy following the last election?"

"We put it under note, Eremeiko, please continue," explained the Foreign Minister, a beady eyed mouse, in a murmur. Of course you did, thought the aforementioned wolf, you have it noted under your piles of worthless dictations and treaties with those idiots in the UN! "As far as we know, during the construction of this facility, the entirety of the pipelines in the refinery were controlled from the room overtaken by the assailants. Thusly, no action by any of the responding teams could have reversed what was happening. The fires are beginning to die down, but will go on into the next day due to the wellheads being busted open. Quite frankly, gentlemen, this was a freak accident." Eremeiko could not help but remember what this "freak accident" had done to those who had been affected by it. The charred skin and grossly huge blisters marring the lieutenant's sobbing face...

"Accidents are not easily tolerated here, Eremeiko," said the Prime Minister with bloated authority. "Though the fact remains," he said, with a glance for support around the table, noted Eremeiko, "that now we must consider what to do about this disaster. Eremeiko, what damage has this done to our oil consumption and production for the next few years?"

"It is nearly irrevocable, Prime Minister," answered the wolf. "Assuming we could divert all available resources and personnel to rebuilding the refinery, reconstruction would take a minimum of three years. Eighty percent of the refinery has already been destroyed beyond hope of recovery. The recent surge in our production that topped Saudi Arabia this year has not helped soften the blow to make it easily manageable. Latest estimates tell us that production in all types of oil fuel will drop by at fifty two percent, which is beyond catastrophic for our electrical output and transportation as well. It will take over two years to even see signs of regaining production, cleaning and reconstruction combined. Even if we bring in every drilling rig we have and set them to work around the clock, oil will not begin flowing in considerable levels for one year at the most. Full restoration of the site can be achieved in another two. However, a loss of thirty-five percent of our total production is expected for the next three years. As far as coal options go, it will be incredibly expensive to revert back to coal from oil due to our wave of modernization to oil facilities. That would be out of the question due to the money and materiel we need to divert to stabilizing oil production. It will be a hard three years... but only three," said Eremeiko with a note of hopefulness that was lost on the desolation of the hard, uncaring, polished surface of the oak table they rested their elbows on. The quiet mood was surprising to Eremeiko. All of his fretting, and they sat as statues. Had they heard all of this before from another meeting?

"What exactly can we do to offset the imbalance we see here?" asked the Economy Bureau head. "My suggestion," ventured Eremeiko warily, keeping his voice neutral, "is to increase expansion of nuclear power plants, and purchase more digging equipment from China and the United States. I do not doubt this would sour relations with Japan, but China, as we know, is eager to capitalize on any new finds of oil-"

"And no doubt will bleed us dry to get at them!" snarled Defense. "There, you are wrong, sir," said Eremeiko, with great hesitance. "China is not as aggressive as we may make them out to be. Their army is in no way able to compete with our own. They will want an easy solution to this oil, what country does not? We can get what we wish from them, and when has America ever refused to sell-"

"When has any other country had such a weapon as this to use against us?" barked Defense once more. Eremeiko found this terrifying and tiring all at once, but the bear had a valid point. "Have you forgotten who did this to us? Damn Muslims hitting us back for something we pulled out of years ago! They're laughing their fur off at the predicament we are in! No doubt the rest of the world will soon know of this. We are already receiving probes from the damn media of that... that CNN network! American TV, already snatching up profits on our disaster! And what is this about purchasing new equipment? If China so covets our oil, they now have the ability to strangle us and stunt our growth for the next decade, as does France, America, and the rest of them!"

"Do not forget..." piped up Agriculture, making Eremeiko snap his head from left to right. It made him feel surrounded, like a wounded animal in a cage of angry gorillas. "Do not forget that America is a large provider of foreign grain. We are depending almost entirely upon them and France for our supplies at this time. Harvests this year have been dismal, to say the least, due to detrimental climate change. What is to say bureaucratic difficulties would stop their shipments at a moment's notice?"

"Forcing us to bend over backwards in our weakened state to demands they may make," murmured the Foreign Affairs Minister. Eremeiko felt himself shrivel and shrink in the face of all this combined show of arms. He hadn't really thought of all this. He had to speak in his defense. "This, sirs, is out of my jurisdiction. I merely gave a technical layout and possible solution strategies to this problem as you asked." Silence reigned following the meek defense put up by the lone wolf. It was deathly, and oppressive.

"We cannot purchase more oil," said Defense in a sudden, surprising show of inspiration. Heads glanced up at each other, some more fearfully than others. A silent consensus moved around the various bureau heads and their cohorts.

"Then we shall snatch it up ourselves," said the Prime Minister, as always the head speaking for the body. "But that will require considerable planning."

"Eremeiko," murmured the Foreign Minister, "How long will current oil supplies last us before we must begin seeking alternatives?"

"All things considered, I would say five months of current, standard consumption before we are driven to desperate measures."

He had no idea how right he would be.


	6. Change does the body good right?

Carmelita Fox sighed as she stared mutely out the window into the city of Paris. The sky today was a simple blue, with clouds everywhere, wispy and light. The rest of the city was as busy and industrialized as usual. It was looking less and less romantic and more and more unfulfilling as the days dragged on here at Interpol. It wasn't a nice, cozy home that she returned to on her trips around the world in pursuit of criminals. Well, one criminal. It was only more dreary, dragging days that never ended. She hated watching people be so happy with each other on the river, in the streets, in their houses, in the backseats of their cars... it made her regret her own turns in life, and she hated anything that did that. Considering the disaster in Russia just yesterday, things might be a little more shaken up, but no. The little kids on the streets continued to play grown-up. She hated that too, because she had never gotten to do it as a child. She had to _be_ a grown-up from the start, and her job helped her cope with that.

Interpol was her life. Nothing else mattered! Although... even her dream of being a police woman was coming under attack what with recent happenings.

It had been two days since the incident at the Arc de Triumph. Two long, boring, miserable days, filled with questions from the higher command and staying inside the office to avoid the swarms of media sharks who had scented the delicious meat of failure. Carmelita's failure. Her repeated failures. The news loved tragic failure, and they couldn't wait to disembowel the reputation of Interpol yet again with another report of the incompetence that was Carmelita Fox. She wished she could shoot out their cameras and punch their garrulous snouts in, and planned to do so one of these days. That would show them and their audiences. She wouldn't fail next time. She never failed. The vixen was never one to fall away from something she was determined to accomplish; she had been that way all her life. One did not become one of the more respected members of Interpol just by trying.

Failure was running rampant in her life right now, though, all because of one certain, terrifically annoying little racoon. She wouldn't say his name. She hated saying his name outside of work. As a matter of fact, and this just popped into her head, she could hardly stand to think his name anywhere, even at work. He was responsible for the lunacy that had become her life. Five years, she thought to herself.

Five thoroughly wasted years of solitude, anxiety, and humiliation. She wasn't surprised at the length of the time it took to catch that Cooper filth; it often took several years to fully pin down an efficient criminal. This particular case, however, was becoming tastelessly repetitive. It was bad enough he hadn't been caught yet, but after all this time and not getting a single lead or arrest? Even Chief Dubois was becoming suspicious of her ability. She had never gotten the name or identification of the fox who had "saved" her two days back. Frankly, she hoped she never saw him again. Enough about the bomb already, he had kept her from tackling Sly Cooper when action was needed! As far as she was concerned, she had had everything entirely under control until that imbecile of a cop showed up. Who did he think he was, anyway? The CIA?

Carmelita's hindsight had never been exactly twenty-twenty.

Looking up from her pouting, she snorted angrily at the pile of papers on her desk, trying to scare them into completing themselves. It didn't work. She sighed and grabbed the first one off the small tower, whipping out a pen to start the mind-numbing task. At least the day was still early on. Perhaps she'd catch up to a couple of friends and go for coffee when she was done.

Or maybe she would just go home and sleep.

Two hours in, and the once disturbingly high tower was now a quarter of the height it was. She had gotten very good at completing paperwork, since it was all she was able to do due to her inability to track down Sly Cooper. Carmelita sighed and felt like taking a break, but that would only break the momentum. She got a good excuse at tearing her eyes away when a knock came at her door.

Rupert the mink, a veteran of the force, poked his head in the door.

"Chief Dubois wants you in his office, pronto." Carmelita nodded silently, and Rupert disappeared. The vixen sighed and pushed away from her desk, amusing herself by scooting about the floor on her squeaky rolling chair for a few moments before standing up and straightening out her hair. She had a feeling this wouldn't work out too well, and didn't look forward to savoring it on the elevator...

---- ---------- ----- ---- ---

"Chief?" said Carmelita hesitantly, looking in on the grave faced bobcat. The only light in the room was the open window, but the brightness of the sun gave more than enough light. He motioned with his paw for her to come in.

"Get in here, Fox," he said with a small amount of indifference. Carmelita cleared her throat quietly. This definitely would not end on a happy note. She was so absorbed in her dark, brooding thoughts that she didn't notice the tall figure facing the window, or the other fox in a chair in front of Dubois' desk, leaning his head on his paw, for several moments.

Freezing in mid-stride as they came into her field of view, she raised her eyebrow at both of them. Dubois continued.

"Stay there, Fox. These two gentlemen are here on my notice, and their time. Give them all due respect."

The figure at the window turned, revealing himself to be a slim figured, hard faced jackal. His golden eyes were not at all comforting, nor inviting. They were calculating. He was dressed in an immaculately pressed business suit, with a plain blue tie.

"Miss Fox," he said in a clear, bass voice that commanded her attention, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice made it sound like anything but. Carmelita cleared her throat again, folding her paws on her stomach and searching for words. Her eyes kept falling back on the male fox in the chair. He looked terribly familiar...

"Ah... hello. Who... might you be?" She was getting an odd feeling from the jackal, like the room had grown more confining. The jackal held out no badge.

"My name is Edward Rohr. CIA."

Carmelita felt her blood run cold. CIA? No wonder she felt intimidated. She put up a brave front nonetheless, standing up straight and putting on a placid, neutral expression. Whatever this was, she could handle it.

"Mr. Rohr," cut in Chief Dubois, "is here on behalf of the US government. An issue has been brought to their attention that our unit was recently involved in..." he looked up and saw Rohr staring at him silently. Dubois fell silent and allowed the agent to take over. He turned his golden eyes back to Carmelita.

"Before we begin, reintroductions are in order. I'm sure you're already well acquainted with agent Cornwallis here?"

The fox stood up, and Carmelita felt her eyes grow wide. He had blue eyes. And he hadn't been leaning on his paw. He had been holding an ice pack to his bruised left temple. Her jaw dropped a few millimeters, and she licked her lips, wracking her brain for something to say as dread realization flooded her senses in a deluge of near panic. This wasn't something she was ready for! The fox spoke before she could, biting sarcasm in every word of his calm, professional voice.

"Miss Fox. The pleasure is all mine. You remember me, don't you?" Surprisingly, he offered his paw to shake.

"Miles J. Cornwallis, US government agent. At your service," he added with all the derisiveness he could conjure. Carmelita took it cautiously, and felt him squeeze before shaking stiffly, and her eyes widened a bit more, if that was possible.

"Uhh..."

Rohr cut in on the friendly "conversation", holding up a TV remote and pointing it somewhere behind Carmelita, who turned in that direction. There was a television set that winked to life, and the vixen felt like asking to be shot as she saw what was playing.

"This was recorded by at least five major media outlets owned by the French alone," said Rohr behind her, but his words didn't sink in. Carmelita had a sinking feeling in her gut that made her want to vomit as only one possibility as what was on the tape occupied her thoughts.

Sure enough, the entire dispute between she and Cornwallis two days ago played out in humiliating fullness. She winced when it came to the part where she slugged Miles. That looked like it had hurt, and looking back, she only now wished she hadn't done that. It was rather funny to Carmelita, seeing them shove at each other, but the humor was born of desperation to make light of the situation. She had punched a CIA officer who had, she finally admitted to herself, saved her life, and no doubt his reaction to her provocation had placed him in a precarious situation as well.

When it was over at last, she turned slowly back to the three angry men in front of her, biting her lower lip. Oddly enough, Miles looked fairly calm compared to the other two. Rohr glanced at Dubois, giving him permission to speak. It would be better if it came from her own boss. Her own boss, however, was currently staring daggers at her. This was probably the part where I get fired and discredited for life, thought Carmelita gloomily. She braced herself for the worst, and indeed, she was forced to bow under the initial volleys launched.

"For reasons unknown, we aren't firing the both of you at once. This is indeed a colossal failure on both your parts to uphold the dignity of our organizations, and you deserve a punishment equal to that ineptitude. Instead, Mr. Rohr has other plans for you and Mr. Cornwallis. You're going to be partners."

Carmelita, who had been slightly hunched from the gravity of the situation, at last gave in to the weight of the words thrown at her. She swayed and supported herself by leaning on one of Dubois' plush chairs, her mouth hanging open noticeably. She looked at all three of the others, and they gave no sign to indicate this was a joke. Her jaw worked up and down while she tried to comprehend what was just said. Waving her paw vaguely in the air, she shook her head slightly and stuttered.

"Um... W... What- what? What did... Did you..."

"Ms. Fox," said Rohr, taking over where Dubois left off, "that bomb that nearly killed you and agent 'Wallis was no coincidence. It was, we believe, an attempt on the lives of you, Cornwallis, and the thief called Sly Cooper. The emphasis, however, is on the latter two."

"Who... Sly Cooper?" gasped out Carmelita. What on Earth was going on? She was still trying to iron out the fact that she had a partner!"But wait... but... why him? Why me? And who said I needed a partner?!"

Miles reached down and pulled a briefcase from the side of his chair. He placed it on Dubois' desk and opened it, revealing several folders and a menagerie of reconnaissance photographs. Miles picked one of the plain manila folders out of the pile and handed it to Carmelita, who leaned back on Dubois' desk while she flipped through the information, reverting back to the nature of a true officer, scrutinizing everything she saw.

"That file," started Rohr, "contains information on an extremely sophisticated, extremely powerful criminal organization we only know as Conduit. All we know is in this briefcase, and most of it is fairly vague. Even with our resources, we haven't been able to track them down effectively. You're wondering what this has to do with you? Well, Sly Cooper himself seems to have gotten entangled with this shady society. We were tracking both his and Conduit's movements as best we could, and it is obvious both of them have done all they can to make fools of each other. Sly Cooper is waging, in every sense of the word, war on Conduit. You, Ms. Fox, are an expert on Sly Cooper. We haven't bothered to tail him since he is of no apparent threat to national security, but we are quite aware of your... dealings with the ringtail." Carmelita considered sneering, knowing it was in reference to the romantically themed foilings of her attempts to capture him, but resisted the temptation. "You've been on him for five years," continued Rohr, not caring if she had sneered or not."You're our only link to the only ringtail who is capable of effectively tracking the movements of an organization we are extremely interested in taking down. Agent Cornwallis has been hot on the heels of Conduit for quite some time himself..."

"Six years, give or take. A quarter of what's in that file is mine," said Miles, with no small amount of condescending pride. Everyone knew what Miles had accomplished was thrice as successful as Carmelita. He was obviously still very sour about that blow to the head. Carmelita looked up at him from over the brim of the papers she was holding, and what she saw wasn't very friendly. He might have been handsome if he smiled, but he seemed very good at making himself completely undesirable as a sociological interest. Taking her eyes away, she looked up at Rohr.

"Now hold on a minute here... this whole deal about Conduit, I can believe... but me, linking the CIA of all things to this case... and with all due respect Chief Dubois, I really feel I don't need a partn-"

"You have no say in the matter, Carmelita," said Dubois in a warning tone, but that only masked the pleas under the threats. He respected Carmelita very much as an officer, and they were both well aware of this. He didn't like to push bad things her way; her life was miserably spartan and unfulfilling as it was. Unfortunately, he had been told by the very few in Interpol above him who knew about this dealing to treat it with extreme delicacy. One did not simply brush off the modern CIA. Carmelita looked steadily at Dubois, then down at the floor, and sighed heavily. This was beyond her own authority, and she would have to roll along with it.

"All right," she said, shoulders sagging somewhat as she placed the file back in the briefcase. Now it was back to business.

"Due to the sensitivity of this case, Cornwallis is coming into Interpol as an exchange from Trier, Germany. You will be under careful surveillance to ensure you do not blow his cover."

Allowing her naturally inquisitive mind to take her, Carmelita gestured at Miles.

"You introduced yourself as a 'government agent.' What did you mean by that, I thought you both were part of-"

"Actually, we're from a branch of the CIA," interrupted Miles. "It is an organization whose duties are specifically to perform clandestine operations outside of USA borders with some extra... privileges. I am one of those who go abroad, Mr. Rohr is my superior."

"Does it have a name?"

"I'm not cleared to say, and wouldn't tell you anyway if I was." The look in his eyes said he was actively trying to be arrogant.

"Naturally, anything you hear in this room doesn't leave it under threat of decommission and detainment," said Rohr. Carmelita nodded and turned her attention to Dubois for a moment.

"Does Interpol have any knowledge of Conduit?"

"Yes, but less than half of what the CIA has just given you. The risk involved was such that no one not on the case heard of it. Be aware, Carmelita, this is something far larger than Sly Cooper ever will be. We know nothing except how powerful they can be and how far they are willing to go."

"We're scanning the grid for any sign of Sly Cooper," said Rohr. "In the meantime, consider this mission a go. You've been given a very valuable asset, Ms. Fox, and we expect you to not squander it through isolation and non-cooperation. That is all."

He left promptly, without a backward glance. Miles raised his eyebrow slightly at being called an "asset" but was interrupted from speech by Dubois.

"Well, that settles it. We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Cornwallis. Welcome to the force. Ms. Fox," he said to Carmelita, and both of them gave polite nods to the other. Miles took up the briefcase and headed for the door, Carmelita close behind.

"Come in with smiles on your faces, or I'll tape them on," called Dubois after them.

Both Miles and Carmelita were silent when they reached the elevator, neither of them speaking. Carmelita was, quite clearly to Miles, not the happiest scout in the troop, but then, neither was he. It was bad enough the first good looking woman he had met in a while (now that the grime, blood, and snarl was wiped from her face), had attacked him for saving her life, but now he had to work with her on a case that could cost lives. As a simple police officer. In Interpol, of all places. Why did it have to be Interpol? And why did this stupid elevator take so long in getting here? The male could feel the tangible tension between he and Fox as they stood silently.

The doors finally slid open, and they stepped in, standing side by side a respectable distance from each other.

It was something of a surprise to them both when Carmelita decided to take the initiative.

"Soooo... your name is Miles?" she said, looking up at him.

Miles only smiled in amusement as the elevator doors slid shut in front of them.


	7. The Start Of An Ugly Relationship

"Bentley, I don't like this," said Sly as he took a sip of his coffee. The whole gang was sitting under an umbrella shaded table outside a café near the local US Consulate in München, Germany. Murray was inside getting a bagel.

"Me neither Sly, but that's where the number ended up. It's nowhere else, Sly, I'm telling you. Someone set this up good so we'd be led here."

"Yeah, but why the US Consulate? Even I'm not stupid enough to try to break into one of those. It'll be hard enough getting inside even with all the fake IDs we have. This… who was it again?"

"The bank number of one Robert Duvall. I don't know how or why, but that number and his safe box are the only chances we have at getting a lead as to… well… whatever comes next after that bomb in France. He does look a lot like you, maybe a little younger, so that part shouldn't be a problem. We're going to have to take a leap of faith from there, and hope the ID I scratched together will be enough to get you into his box. Well hey, don't look at me all funny, you're the one that's supposed to love taking risks," Bentley added as he saw Sly peering at him with an odd, cautious look on his face.

"Just be careful, Sly," said Murray as he returned with his bagel, eating it in three whole bites. "Not to say I wouldn't be able to outrun anybody that comes after us," he added with a little smirk.

"Heh, you got that right Murray," said Sly, always ready to support his pals. He stood up from the table and clapped his paws together with a flashy grin.

"Right. Let's get this over with before dinner. I always like to be home when the sauerkraut hits my lower intestine…"

"We know that all too well, Sly," said Bentley, wrinkling his nose.

------ ---- ------- ---- ----- ------ -----

Getting inside was rather simple. The guards were close in their scrutiny of the picture and Sly's face, but everything checked out rather surprisingly, and Cooper got in without any trouble. It helped that his voice didn't have any distinctly discernable accents. It did put Sly on edge to see every law enforcement officer wearing assault rifles near the important doorways, though. He did look normal enough

"Ah, _Herr_ Duvall. It's been quite awhile since you came here last, yes?" said the German Shepherd behind the plexiglass window.

Sly didn't know if the clerk actually remembered this Duvall character, so simply gave a smile and a quick nod that could have meant anything. "I'm looking to get into my safe box?"

"Right this way, _mein Herr."_

Sly was led to a set of elevators by the smiling Shepherd, which they entered and exited silently. Both of them were here to do business, not make friends. Most of the Consulate looked the same all around inside, immaculate marble floors and walls with no uneven paint. The floor they entered was much the same way, but was dressed entirely in marble. It was in the middle of the building, so it had no windows. The only way inside or out was through the elevator. All around the large space guards were placed, and security cameras observed every movement. On one side of the room was a set of double doors that led who knew where. To the right was a large door that looked like the entranceway to a vault, but in actuality was the place this "Mr. Duvall's" safe box, along with several others, was stored. They were stopped in front a secure looking door by a raccoon much like Sly, dressed in army fatigues and a grim looking expression. The clerk turned to a computer nearby and snatched Sly's ID card, glancing at the thin, boyish portrait of Duvall upon it. It seemed to be Sly in all his glory; just add a couple of pounds on and you had the Master Thief in the flesh. The clerk slid the card inside, and the computer matched the information upon it to the records in the database by scanning a small barcode on the card. An affirmative "_bing!" _signaled a match, and the vault opened, the military raccoon stepping aside. Sly followed the clerk in, but out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the other militarily garbed guards looking at him intensely, then reach for his radio. Shrugging it off for typical watchman paranoia, he looked back at the German Shepherd, whom by then had stopped again in front of a pedestal with a large, vague silhouette of a paw upon it.

"Place your paw right here,_ Herr _Duvall."

Sly gulped visibly, but the clerk did not notice as he was glancing about the room. Cooper didn't move for a moment, having not expected a scan as thorough as this, and then decided if he ran, he would be caught anyway. Even he could figure out when there was no escape. He placed his paw on the pedestal as instructed and sighed in resignation. The scanner did its work… and glowed a positive green. Sly almost fainted from confused relief, but kept his head as the clerk showed him to a clear glass door, which he drew back and led Sly into the room beyond. It was the size of a closet and a tight fit for the two of them, but the clerk only mechanically whipped out a key and opened a small safe in the wall. He opened it, gestured to the small box inside, and stepped away, smiling courteously.

Sly glanced at the box carefully, then reached slowly inside and pulled it out, placing it onto the small table in front of him. He paused for several minutes, waiting until his curiosity overwhelmed his caution, and opened the box.

Inside were a few passports, a slip of paper, a credit card, and a cellular phone. Sly picked the latter up and looked at it from all angles. What was this doing in here? The passports he could understand, but a cellular phone was nothing to keep behind a vault. Unless he was supposed to do something important with it without anyone else noticing.

Suddenly, it began vibrating manically, and Sly dropped it in his surprise, letting out a small yelp. It clattered to the floor, and Sly followed it down, fumbling with it to flip up the lid and answer the call. He looked up quickly to see if the clerk or anyone else was watching his odd behavior, but he was alone. Thank goodness. Sly pushed the button to let the call through and spoke into it, whispering even though he knew no one but the caller could hear him.

"Would you be the wise guy who led me here?"

"Who else, my boy?" said a calm, cheerful voice on the other end. It had an intensely English ring to it.

"Don't call me that!" Sly snapped, still whistling. "You listen, uh… whoever you are. Do you know who I am? I'm _the_ Master Thief! I don't take to people messing with me, and that includes spilling my insides over France! Tell me who you are and why you brought me here, now!"

"Oh," said the voice, not sounding surprised or perturbed at all, "that would take all the fun out of it. Who _I _am is not important in any case. Who I work for and what I'm about to propose to you is far more relevant to your predicament. Of course you know about Conduit?"

"Those posers that tried to upstage me in Spain? Yes, I know quite a bit about them…" Sly growled quietly and sat down on a chair behind him. He took his position very seriously, and anyone that tried to take that away from him or even proclaim themselves superior to himself made him very angry indeed.

"Well, you obviously do not know enough about them, then. They're far more powerful than you can imagine, Mr. Cooper."

"…How do you know my name?"

"Oh, everyone knows your name, you must know that. Fortunately not everyone knows your face, or you would be dead fifteen times over. We've calculated."

"And just why are you so interested in me?" said Sly, no longer whispering.

"You're trying to take on one of the most powerful criminal organizations we've ever known. We being the world."

"Yeah? Your point? I've beaten big robot owls that came back from the dead. A few kingpins don't scare me."

"Ah yes. Clockwerk. Your little drama play doesn't make you the best criminal in the world, you know."

"That's _thief,_ you… who are you, anyway?!"

"You're a criminal, Sly Cooper, and you always will be, just like me and my uh… employers. We have a common foe, Sly Cooper… Conduit. We don't want them monopolizing on our business. They have the power to crush us both separately… but together…" The speaker trailed off.

"Together? Why should I work with you?" Sly's voice was grating. His vengeance for his family and his father being called a "drama play" didn't exactly endear him to this odd man on the other end of the line.

"As I said, Sly Cooper, you and I separately simply cannot take down Conduit. If you persist in nagging them with your little pinpricks, they will find you, and then you will die."

"Why are you so worried about me? You have an inside man here at a US Consulate. That's the only way you can know about me being in this room. That guard outside. That's pretty dang good."

"Not good enough. They're pushing us out. We need your skills. Not that you're especially important, but it would benefit both of us."

"Benefit you, you mean. What do I get out of it?"

"You get to both keep your reputation, and will receive a generous amount of monetary compensation."

"Now listen you, if you think I'm into all this just for money… I live in a once-story apartment and eat potato chips all day! I'm not going to be swayed by-"

"Two hundred million dollars?"

Sly stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth dropping open like it was attached to a weight. He sat heavily on the chair and gasped out nonsense for several seconds, his eyes growing wider every moment until they vaguely resembled dinner plates.

"Two… Wha… how, um… th-… wha… I…"

"Yes, that's what we thought your general reaction would be. You are a thief, Mr. Cooper. You understand the value of money, and that we have plenty of. You must understand… we are in dire straits. Not only us, but innocents as well. Conduit will stop at nothing to gain power and money in any sort of venture. They do not care how or where they get it. Downright evil, if you ask me. Just the kind of target you'd like!"

"…Two hundred million dollars?"

"Make that… two hundred and fifty. We give you the fifty now to do with as you please, and the rest on the completion of your mission. No! Three hundred million, Mr. Cooper! Three hundred-"

"Whoa! Whoa there, big fella. Three hundred is more than enough," said Sly, wiping the bit of drool that had begun to dribble down his face out of the corner of his mouth. The other voice seemed very pleased indeed.

"All right then, Mr. Cooper. However, I'm afraid we must discuss this at a later date, some very… pressing matters have come up. I shall relay your decision to my… employers. Our plans will be revealed to you in three days time. The money will be in your account within the hour. Talk to your friends. Remind them how much is at stake. Keep the cell phone, and the credit card. We will tell you where to spend it. Farewell, Mr. Cooper."

Sly Cooper, master of thieves, sat in the quiet room for ten minutes, contemplating how much money he and his friends had just received. Bentley would have a heart attack, that much he knew. Murray would certainly be unhappy, but Sly knew how much the hippo respected and trusted his decisions, and Sly respected that in turn. Good old Murray.

The raccoon then got up, placed the cell phone and credit card and everything else in his pocket, and went back outside to meet his friends.

Bentley just blew up, instead. It was humorous to watch how red a guy colored green could get.

----- ----- ---- -----------

Carmelita didn't exactly know what to expect the next day when she went into the office. When she woke up in the morning, she had trouble remembering what went on yesterday. Then she had realized… she had a partner to meet with today. She had growled and very nearly chucked her morning coffee into the nearest wall. Pah! A partner? They didn't know what real police work was! How dare they assume she was incompetent enough to actually have need of a partner? That stuck-up pig would just get in the way of her work! She had been on the verge of a breakthrough, and they had…

Then she had sighed, and bowed her head. Who was she kidding? She hadn't been close to anything.

Damn Sly Cooper. One of these days, she promised herself that morning, just like she did every morning, that when she had her paws around his throat, she would strangle the life right out of him, break his neck in three places, and finally toss him into solitary confinement in the toughest prison they could find.

And _then _she would kill him.

---------- -- -------------- -

"Morning, Miss Fox," was repeated several times to Carmelita by her fellow officers, to which she replied with only a curt nod.

The vixen meandered through the hallways, dreading what she would find in her office like a child going to investigate if there was a monster in the closet.

When she opened the door, she stumbled backwards into the wall behind her in shock.

The lights inside were dimmed slightly, the curtains pulled down, but their slits were open to let in a tolerable amount of light. The morning sun often shone right into the room, and Carmelita was often flustered by it, but that wasn't what bothered her. What did bother her was that someone had gotten into her office first and pulled the blinds down before she did. That someone was sitting at another desk across the room from her's, typing furiously at a computer. It, or rather he, was a grey furred squirrel, with a slowly growing pile of peanut cases at his footpaws. Around and behind him was an assortment of large terminals, and one or two other PCs. Carmelita walked in slowly, the squirrel appearing not to notice her.

"_What…"_ began Carmelita slowly, "are _you_ doing _here?"_

The squirrel suddenly looked up from chewing peanuts and typing, glancing at Carmelita like he had never seen a fox in his life. Then, a large, jovial smile lit up his round face, his brown eyes glowing in the light of the computer monitor.

"Oh, hello! You must be Miss Fox. My name's Peter Sparrows, but you can just call me Pete. I'm uh… your new partner?" He stretched out his paw for a friendly shake.

Carmelita ignored his outstretched paw for the moment, putting a paw on her hip as she put her weight on one leg.

"You're my partner? There must have been some sort of mix-up… this guy named Miles-"

"Oh, so they didn't tell you," said the squirrel as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm his, uh… cohort, I think they call it, on his operations. I basically connect him to home base when he's away."

"What? No!" said Carmelita, throwing up her paws and gesturing wildly. "One of you was bad enough! I don't need two partners! You… you take all this stuff and get out! Get out now! And look! Look at this!" She bent down and grabbed a pawful of the peanut cases. "What is all this?!"

Peter looked at them closely, then back at Carmelita, seemingly confused.

"Uh… well those are peanuts. I like eating them. I was going to clean them up, there's a vacuum in the… back…" he paused, watching Carmelita go and snag said vacuum, then begin sucking up all the fallen peanuts. She shook her head in frustration, then thrust it into Peter's chest.

"Here! You do it! I need air… as if this place wasn't enough of a mess… why are you eating that anyway?" Peter looked rather indignant as he clutched the vacuum to his chest.

"I'm a squirrel, I'm supposed to like eating nuts!"

She had gotten halfway to the door, when Miles appeared in the doorway, munching on something in a plastic bag he clutched in his paw. He stopped in front of Carmelita and smiled genuinely, holding out a paw as well. He was dressed in fine, business like attire, with a white dress shirt, a red tie, snazzy dress shoes, black pants. There was even a stereotypical trench coat. Surprisingly, he looked rather nice in it. It looked pretty much exactly like something a typical government agent might wear. It reminded Carmelita of a TV show she had seen a few times. What was it? The Z-Files or something? Ah well. It wasn't important.

"Oh, good morning," he said. "I can see you're surprised about the uh… renovations. Peter and I moved in earlier. We're used to getting up early."

It was six AM, and Carmelita wasn't impressed. She stared at Miles blandly, narrowing her eyes.

"I don't take kindly to strange people messing around with _my office," _she said dangerously. Miles held up a finger to silence her.

"Whoop… our office," he said with an annoyingly large smile. From somewhere he pulled out a single flower with a couple of intricate wrist twists, putting it under Carmelita's nose. The weirdo apparently knew some parlor tricks.

"Thought this might cheer you up in light of recent events," he said. The look in his eyes made it fairly obvious he was trying to annoy her further, but his voice had a touch of sincerity in it. Carmelita knew either one was terrific at lying, so she opted for her regular pointed response. She grabbed the flower, barely avoiding crushing it in her paw by a few millimeters.

"You're too kind," she said with gritted teeth, then stared at what was in the fox's other paw.

"What is _that?"_ Miles looked down at the small plastic bag, like the answer was obvious.

"Sunflower seeds," he said. Carmelita looked down. Several of the cases had already fallen to the floor. She growled and snatched the bag away from Miles, then went over and took away the rest of Peter's peanuts, muttering dark gibberish under her breath as she vacated the office quickly to dispose of the offending snack foods. Miles and Peter stared at the empty door, then the fox sighed and took a seat at his own desk, which had been moved in earlier.

"I think this is the start of the ugliest relationship I've ever seen," he said. Peter shrugged and went back to his computer.

"Well, we've dealt with worse. Besides, she looked like she thought your little flower trick was funny."

"She threw it in the trash, Pete."

"Eh… it's in the face. You just got to look."

"I look at her face anymore and she'll burn my skin off with her 'angry eyes'… I don't see why we're being paired up like this. What's the French word for failure, Pete? Nah, never mind, poor woman probably hears it more than is good for her health. Well, what have we got? Anything on Sly Cooper? On anyone?" Peter stared at the computer screen for a long moment.

"Well, there is one thing. Do you happen to remember a rat that goes by the name Cupric?"

"That weirdo? Don't tell me we have to go see him again." Peter shrugged despairingly.

"He's one of the best contacts we have right now. Remember Miles, we're Interpol agents now. Dubois will pull strings and sweep up tracks where he can, but running around willy-nilly will get us in deep before we even know we've drowned in it."

"Pete, if I counted how many times we've been in deep with something, I'd run out of air in this room."


	8. Finally, Some Action

A/N: I don't like this chapter. I really don't. That's why it took so long to get up. If you think it's as bad as I do, please do tell..

It had taken all of twenty minutes for Bentley to cease ranting. The moment the words had left Sly's mouth that he had accepted a deal from an unknown criminal for help, the little guy had launched into a tirade of how utterly insane Sly must have been, how they needed plans, how things simply could not happen without a level of organization, and how they weren't supposed to be in this deep without knowing what they were up against, and especially how on Earth did they convince Sly Cooper of all people to work for them? It was fortunate they were renting out a home outside of town, or any other tenants in an apartment inside the city would be planting the cops on them faster than they could blink.

For the past few days, they had avoided one another until Bentley had calmed down enough to speak reasonably. Currently they were seated in a triangle on comfy chairs in the small living room. Bentley had initiated the questioning about their new "bosses" as he had put it, with some prodding from Murray.

"First of all," said Sly calmly, his legs crossed and his paws on his knees, "we're going to work _with _them, not for. They may be powerful, but we've gone up against bigger than this."

"Sly, they were able to keep track of us in a gigantic city full of people! They planted items inside of a US Consulate and knew exactly when and where we were in a good position to contact us. These guys are incredible! Better than Clockwerk!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Clockwerk was a maniac. This is obviously a well organized and well-funded criminal syndicate! What could possibly even make you conceive of a working relationship-"

"Three hundred million dollars."

"…_What?" _said Bentley and Murray in perfect unison, their eyes far wider than they could go naturally. Sly grinned and spoke again, leaning forward eagerly, putting his paws on the arms of his chair.

"We are going to receive three hundred million dollars to help crack open one of the biggest criminal organizations in the world. Fifty now, the rest when the job is done and Conduit is in pieces."

Bentley and Murray sat back in their chairs and whistled quietly in perfect symphony. Murray quickly turned in his seat and went to check into each of their numerous fake accounts, pointing at the screen as his eyes widened still more.

"There it is. Fifth National Bank, in Trier. These guys weren't kidding!"

Bentley ground his teeth together and slid his glasses back up his nose, a sure sign that he was thinking deeply about something. Sly attempted to make light of the situation for the benefit of his company. He knew that none of them knew what to do next until the next call, they didn't need to rub it in like that! In any case, they had done some fairly crazy things before, and everything had worked out just fine. This was going to be just like all those other odd escapades during Clockwerk's crusade against the Coopers. Plus, it was going to be far more rewarding.

"Look, when you think about it, it's really not that bad. We have fifty million dollars in our pockets right now! Fifty million dollars, just think about it. Bentley," he barked, pointing at the reptile, "you could get a whole new computer. New upgrades. New contacts!" Bentley looked to the ground and shrugged sheepishly. That was quite true. Money was a universal language, and the little guy knew he could pull quite a few strings that would help the gang keep track of their mysterious "benefactors." Sly next turned on Murray, who seemed genuinely surprised to be pulled into the conversation.

"Murray, with fifty million, you could buy the most tripped out van in the northern hemisphere! I'm talking all the great stuff we've ever wanted, in our laps, right here, right now."

"Well, it does _sound_ good Sly," replied the hippo hesitantly. "I mean, on paper that is, you could say, it might… But… to me…" and here he flashed upon some hidden intuition, "it seems like these guys are little desperate to get us to get close with them. Maybe… maybe they're willing to go to greater lengths than just some greenbacks here and there. I'm just saying, desperate times, desperate measures, desperate people… desperate choices."

Silence prevailed in the room as Bentley and Sly processed what Murray had just said. Cooper seemed to pause for a moment, then gesticulated wildly again.

"But fifty million dollars!"

Bentley sniffed loudly.

"Well I don't like it, Sly. These guys have something up their sleeve. You've made quite a decision, Sly, and all the caution in the world won't help us here. Murray's right, they wanted us in on this quick, but whether they want us personally or our services I don't know. I've got a feeling we're treading on eggshells." Sly merely gave one of his devil-may-care smiles, which made Bentley sigh and shake his head as he turned his gaze away. Whenever Sly looked like that, nothing short of divine intervention could convince him to something contrary to what he was planning. Satan himself could open a crack from Hell and demand differently; Sly would turn away with a wave of his paw. Bentley was often quite concerned for Sly's lack of procedural thought, and both he and Murray shared their sympathies with Sly's love of financial security. One of the few ways to Sly's heart (besides the path Carmelita Fox wished to make with her gun) was money. And they had gotten a lot of money. If anything, it was persuasive.

"That's exactly why we do what we do, Bentley," said a swashbuckling Sly Cooper.

"Ughn… I was afraid you'd say that." Sly leaned forward and patted Bentley's shoulder.

"Ah, don't worry. I'm the one that does the treading, you just focus on the shedding!"

He got up and walked away, opened the door, and walked into the evening, apparently going for a roguish, dashing exit. Bentley slowly looked over at Murray, who was doing his best to look innocent and naïve about Sly's rash decision making. Both of them had to agree; this was one of the most daring schemes Sly had come up with. In fact, it was so daring and original, they hadn't even found out what they wanted to do next. Such brilliance in such simplicity, thought Bentley with a great splash of sarcasm. Sly had done this before, and somehow they came out on top. Statistically, it was improbable, darn near impossible, but Sly had pulled them out of the frying pans he led the gang into. This would, or rather, should, be just like all those other times.

"Say, do you have _any idea at all _what he meant by that?" said Bentley. "I mean… shedding? I don't shed when I can help it. I take some mild offense to that." Murray shrugged and shook his head, hooves in his lap. Suddenly, Sly appeared again, pointing into the air with his finger and twirling it around in a way that said he was rationalizing.

"Uh… by the way, that just… supposed to rhyme, you know. Shedding the… information and whatnot."

The trio stared at one another awkwardly for several quiet moments. The cell phone Sly had received in München that morning rang rather unexpectedly. They stared at it and each other, until Sly got the courage to pick it up. He listened for a few moments, and then drew back from the receiver as though a snake was striking at him through it, a surprised look on his face.

"We're expected in Trier," he said slowly before placing the phone back down on the table.

"And what are you going to do about that?" asked Bentley, but fortunately nobody noticed the accusing tone. Sly only shrugged, ignoring the pointed look that Bentley gave him.

"_We _are going to go to Trier. Not like we can do anything else to figure this out."

Bentley sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing them on his tie. "Sly," he said as he placed them back, a tired note in his voice, "you know this isn't the only way to do things… this is rash, even for you. Why are you so set on getting back at these guys? We've never teamed up with any other real criminals before, except maybe to make a few extra dollars on the side. And now this. You've been bribed, Sly! Bribed! I never thought a guy like you would be swayed by some capital! What would your father think? Sly, why do you have to take a plunge like this on your own?" Bentley's voice had been louder than he wanted it to be. Sly suddenly slammed his fist down on the table, his voice grating as he whirled on Bentley.

"Because nobody _steals_ what's _mine_ from under _my _nose and gets away with it! I'm the Master Thief, Bentley, and _I _think my father would rather I do something about this instead of lazing around like some… common robber!"

"Common robbers make money Sly! You just made a lot of it!"

"Sly…" Murray said quietly.

"What!" snapped both Bentley and Cooper at the same time, still glaring at each other. Their voices made the hippo jump.

"I don't think your dad would want you to get killed doing something crazy, either." Sly seemed shocked at the fact that Murray had been so outspoken, especially about a touchy subject like his family's reputation. Murray had always been so quiet, so trusting, and to hear a thing like this from the oft-sealed mouth of Murray felt remarkably like a betrayal. Sly stepped away to the door and shook his head, pointing at both of his friends accusingly.

"I _know_ what my father would want. What any Cooper would want. And they would want me to defend what rightfully belongs to Cooper, and that is in Trier!" said Sly, emphasizing each of his last words by jabbing at the door. He suddenly seemed to remember where he was, and ran a paw over his head again, sitting heavily on a nearby chair, his face scrunched up in confusion and anger.

"Guys… they hurt me. They hurt us. Badly. We need to do this… or at least… I need to. And," he said with a chuckle, "three hundred million dollars. It was a quick decision, but that's the biggest payoff we've had in years. We could live in style; take a break for a few weeks at our house in Cancun, the Cooper way! I… guys, please. This is important to me. More than I can tell you."

A moment of silence.

"I'm going to Trier," said Sly.

Bentley and Murray looked deeply distressed. As lifelong friends, they had all three of them shared most of what was going on in their lives. Their pasts before the orphanage, their first heists and their decision to go big-time, their first girlfriends. Their anger, pain, fear, and happiness was unavoidable to each other. Sly had always been the calm, cool, dashing one through it all, however, and to see him so frayed over this matter was unsettling, to say the least. But Sly was their friend, and that simple fact overshadowed everything. They looked at each other, resolution in their minds, and Bentley turned back to Sly.

"Looks like you'll have company."

-

As far as harbingers went, there were none that stated anything terribly explicit in the first three days of the working relationship between the CIA and Interpol, shown vicariously through the lives of Peter Sparrows, Miles Cornwallis, and Carmelita Fox. The latter showed extremely little interest in the former two, and the favor was replied in kind. Some interaction, however, was inevitable, since the meeting between Cupric and the other three had to be organized. It took a bare minimum of two hours soon after the first bit of banter and snack-food discrimination the first time they had met, and Carmelita was satisfied that these two at least knew what they were doing. Excuse her, please, if she is not jumping for joy right now.

It had been rather odd, forcing herself to speak with those others like they were regular business associates. For the other two, it had been less of a trial. Though they and Fox barely spoke at all the past two days, they were used to going back and forth between different groups of people. Carmelita was simply a bit more stubborn than most. Every time words were exchanged, they were tight and quick, without much feeling. Peter always seemed to be a busybody, which he was. It was his source of security, he supposed, since nothing else in his life had ever seemed to stay nailed down. He was borderline workaholic, and he knew it, and his station behind the computer screens and at the other end of the static-ridden microphones didn't earn him much of a social life. He was not too hard to figure out to Fox. He smiled whenever he talked, but his eyes seemed to have perpetual rings under them from lack of sleep.

Miles was a tad more complex. One minute he would be uptight and pensive, the next he was smiling and being terribly annoying, being optimistic and sarcastic all at once. He had thought he could bribe his way onto her good side with the flower, but gradually they came to a mutual understanding that neither had any interest in being friends. Just because they were in the same office didn't mean they had to enjoy it, and each took every opportunity to outline this in very harsh terms. More than once somebody had looked into the office just to watch the sparks flying when they opened their mouths to each other. He never talked about himself, surprisingly enough. Carmelita kept a good eye on him, and she kept an _especially _close eye on the fox as they were driving along north of Paris to the small town of Rouen. It was much like most other parts of France, full of verdant fields and chateaus bristling with old battlements and such archaic luxuries enjoyed by the nobility over a hundred years ago. Miles might have admired them if they were in view yet, but as it stood, they weren't.

The road to Rouen (an auspicious thought, that) was long, flat, and boring. It would take a couple of hours to get there, and with Peter back in Paris listening in through Miles' headset, and tapping on his computers to find any trace of Sly Cooper, it was fairly quiet. The only noise at all, in fact, was coming from the purr of the engine. Both he and Carmelita were sitting comfortably away from each other, each thinking their own private thoughts. Until…

"So how long have you been on the force?"

"What?" said Carmelita in a flat voice, turning her head to Miles.

"The force," replied 'Wallis, staring ahead at the road. "How long have you been in with it? Keep your eyes on the road," he warned. Carmelita obeyed and shrugged her shoulders.

"Seven years, give or take."

"So… that would make you what? Just into twenty-six?" said Miles, glancing in her direction. Obviously he didn't have much tact with women. Fox looked sharply at him, but he didn't seem to notice his little blunder.

"Yes…" she said slowly, turning back to her driving. "And you?" she asked in retaliation. Still Miles kept a perfectly calm expression.

"Going on twenty-seven."

"Mmm… when is it?" Carmelita said, rather miffed that she had been partnered with someone who had next to no knowledge of her gender. An _American_ ignoramus of all things. She suddenly remembered she didn't really know _what _he was, having no real distinctive features. That was what you got with the CIA, she supposed,

"Three months from next Wednesday," replied Miles, then blinked as realization dawned. "Say, isn't seven years almost as long as you've been on Sl-"

"_Yes,_ that's two years longer than I've been on the Cooper case. Why?"

"I dunno. I just thought it was rather, uh… well, odd that you'd be so long on that case all on your lonesome. With no headway," he added a tad unnecessarily.

"Well I happen to _like _being 'all on my loneseome,' thank you very much. I don't need you to tell me what's odd about me, either."

"Well, all right…" Carmelita raised an eyebrow at the male's resigned tone.

"Were you going to say something?"

"Hm? Me? No. Nothing," said Miles, turning away and waving his paw to show he was no longer interested in the conversation. He seemed a bit too innocent for Carmelita, and her high level of distrust of anyone but her was not helping matters.

"I think you were," she said. She had meant to sound declarative, but to Miles, starting that sort of thing was downright sassy.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I wasn't going to say anything!"

"If you want to make a snide comment, I'd appreciate if you did it to my face!" Carmelita snapped back, easily picking up on his agitation, which only convinced her even more that Miles was holding some sort of dark, nasty thought about her.

"Well fine, here's one. You need some fresh air! All that time in the office and you're jumpier than my fifth grade class cricket…"

"Are you mocking the way I work!"

"If I recall correctly, you're the one that asked for commentary."

"First you guess my _age,_ and now you compare me to a bug?" said Carmelita, her Spanish accent becoming more pronounced. She glared over at 'Wallis, who returned the favor blandly. He was not impressed with how easily she was agitated. This could have just been a routine conversation, something to pass the time, but no. It didn't _take _a bomb to set her off, she _was _a bomb. One that had stumbled upon the miracle of perpetual detonation. He was beginning to regret not hitting her back on the streets of Paris last week.

"Look, I don't see why you're so mad all of a sudden," he said. "Sheesh, I thought a hard-knock like you would have thicker skin…"

"_What_ did you just call me?"

"I read your psych profile, Fox, but they didn't tell me you were set off _this_ easily."

"Well _excuse me_ for showing a little sentiment about my life!"

"Does it feel good? Take your time. First time for everything, 'Lita'…" muttered Miles mockingly, turning away.

"Look, _'Wally',_ retorted Carmelita, "before you dig a deeper hole for yourself, I suggest you stay quiet."

Miles snapped his head back at the mention of his old nickname that Fox had stumbled upon.

"All right, 'Your Highness,' I'm getting a little tired of these shenanigans! You can't even lighten up for two hours! I haven't said a word to upset anyone and you're making a mountain out of this!"

"Need I remind you," snarled Carmelita with an air of finality, "that as things stand, you are considered an entry-level agent! _I _am your superior, and if you don't cut this useless chit-chat-"

"Ahhhh, I'm terrified," said Miles, obviously feeling quite the opposite as he wagged his paws in the air and spoke in a deadpan tone. "I'll try to remember to faint after we get back."

"Don't you back-sass me!"

"And just what are you going to do about it?"

It escalated with alarming rapidity from there. Peter lifted his head curiously from his computer screen as he heard an unintelligible jumble of fighting words from the two foxes in the car. He pressed the earpiece closer to see if he was hearing things correctly, then sighed and decided to ignore it. It was the most one could do between those two.

-

At last, the arguing was over, and they were parked outside of a café that sat on the outskirts of Rouen. Miles now did get a chance to admire the scenery. It had been years since he had been to France's countryside like this. Most of what he'd seen of France was from the plane on over from America, and he had liked what he had seen. He would never consider living here, though, and was thankful none of his international assignments had forced him to stay here for any length of time. All those "pretty French waitresses" his friends had gone on about had been happy to hit him with a dead beaver when he asked for a loaf of bread when he had come here, and had asked Carmelita why the French were so hostile.

"Maybe because you ask stupid questions like this," she said, having always had a distaste for small talk.

"Oh," said Miles, flattening his ears against his head, but relishing the opportunity to snipe at her. "I thought you were just related."

Carmelita promptly shoved him into a window, and moved on like this happened everyday.

"So how reliable exactly is this 'Cupric' of yours?"

"Well," replied Cornwallis, rubbing his shoulder as he returned to Fox's side, "he's helped lead us to several high-profile enemies of the state. He has contacts in the underworld, and we supply him with the money to loosen lips. He thinks we don't know he shaves off a few greenbacks here and there from busted illicit transactions to line his own pockets, but if it keeps him fairly loyal to us, we're happy."

"So the CIA really does openly deal with criminals?"

"Not exactly. We're very good at our jobs, and most of these people are just in for the money and don't even look past the first name. Cupric is our only "official" contact that I know of. We like to keep our options open."

"Cupric… isn't that Latin for-"

"Copper. Yes. He thinks he's terribly clever. Don't be surprised if he makes a pass at you, either. If you're thinking about being snappish, don't be."

"Why? Am I supposed to cater to his ego or something?"

"No. It's just that he gets like you when you're pissed off, and I really don't want to deal with that today."

The peaceful setting did little to improve their mood as they came upon the open door of Curpic's estate on a hill far above town. It was by no means quaint, but seeing as he was on the lance tip of many black market operations, Carmelita had no doubt that he would eventually find something to waste his money on. That was one thing she hated about the richer folk… everything they bought was superfluous, meant only for them to believe there was something slightly exciting going on in their lives. Miles didn't care what people did with money as long as it wasn't his. The inside was full of exotic potpourri, confirming Carmelita's first impressions and making Miles wince at how things clashed. Flamboyant paintings and luxurious furniture covered the floor and walls. Miles led Carmelita straight past it, and she followed without as much as a single glance in either direction. This sort of extravagancy did not impress her in the slightest. She was focused on being straight and to the point; even her apartment reflected that. They moved through a large hallway of Picasso. Around the corner came a nasal voice with a heavy New York accent.

"Ahh, who's botherin' me now, huh? Want more change Jacques? I ain't givin' nothin', ya hear me?"

A short, small-snouted rat rounded the corner, bearing a glass of mineral water and having a very annoyed look on his clean-shaven face. He obviously used quite a bit of his fortune on manicures and fur care products, more than likely. It was a humorous contrast between his grating, stressed speech and his well-groomed appearance. Carmelita hated him already. Miles, however, spread his paws and walked forward with arms outstretched.

"Coop!" as he was apt to call the rat, since his "real" name was quite silly, "how long's it been?"

The rat froze, and recognition dawned in his eyes. With a pathetic yelp, he dodged back around the corner and made a run for it. Miles harrumphed and charged after him.

"Get back here, Coop!" Carmelita moved forward slowly, listening to the crash as the two collided, Miles obviously being the more athletic of them while she admired the paintings in the hallway.

"No! No! Lemme go! I didn't do nothin'! Please! I'm innocent! I got kids!" said the rat, and there came a dull thump.

"Ow!" yelled Miles. "You idiot! I'm not here to arrest you, it's me! Miles! Gah, I oughta- wait a minute, you don't have kids!"

"How did you kn-… I mean, sure I do! Six of 'em! No, ten! I got lots, man! Just don't hurt me!"

Carmelita looked around the corner into the spacious kitchen. Pots and pans were scattered all over the floor, and Cupric was huddled into one corner with a large boiling pot clutched in his paws. Miles was standing across the room, rubbing his head and growling at the whimpering rat.

"Look, you moron, do I need to show you some ID? You've seen me before!"

"You think I care? That's Interpol garb she's wearing, you authoritative freak! You can't just barge in here with a cop!" He looked at Carmelita as she entered with a bland, annoyed look on her face, his eyes roaming with than mere appraisal in them. Carmelita flinched backwards and her fingers nearest her gun trigger twitched.

"Who's, um… who's she?"

"Fox," said Miles simply.

"Well, I can see _that."_

"No, that's her _name!_ She's my partner. Now, come on, give me that pot. You know who I am."

Cupric blindly handed the pot over to Miles, his eyes still locked on Carmelita as he leaned forward onto the counter in front of him, supporting himself with his elbows.

"Ah… so this is the notorious Carmelita Fox. Hello there, mad-moi-zell," he said. "What can I get for a fine lady like you?"

"A bag over your head," said Carmelita in a clipped voice. Cupric blinked dumbly, then nodded a few times. He may have considered himself a ladies' man, but he knew when he was outmatched. Backing off, he turned to Miles, perfectly calm despite his earlier outburst.

"Charming. So, what can I do for ya?"

"Coop… do you know anything about Sly Cooper's whereabouts?"

As if the name held poison in the air that carried it, Cupric backed away several steps, holding up his paw in defense. Miles raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in demeanor. Cupric was usually very sure of himself, especially when it came to talking about criminals.

"Whoa whoa whoa, sport! I ain't touchin' that tuna!"

"Coop, don't be like this…"

"No! No way, jo-say! I got too much of a good thing here to have you come and screw it over for me!"

"Coop, this is important."

"The last time you told me that, I got shot in the foot!"

"Well, that was your fault. Look, we don't have time to mess around, Coop! I need this, and I need it now. Something. Anything. I'll give you the money afterwards, just tell us: can you lead us to Sly Cooper, and can he get us to Conduit?"

"Sly Cooper?" said Cupric incredulously. He suddenly backed away, and Carmelita's eyes narrowed slightly. "No way, slick. That's asking me to jump off a cliff there! You ain't getting nothin' outta me this time, no sir!"

Miles sighed slightly. This was already taking too long. He hadn't wanted to spend more than a few minutes here. Surely the rat had some sort of disk or phone number they could have before being on their way? The little guy may be paranoid, sure, but he being this stubborn put both foxes on edge.

"Coop, don't make us take you in for obstructing justice or… whatever these police people do."

"Take me in? You don't got no right! You listen, I'm not just some chirping birdy you can pick on when you want! I got rights! I got money! I- agh!" Miles jumped backwards as Carmelita, having had enough of messing around with this odd runt, grabbed Coop by the collar and slammed him into the refrigerator, looking him dangerously in the eye and making him scrunch up his face in surprise and fear.

"All right, you obstinate greasy furred little squealer! We don't have time to beat around the proverbial bush, and if you don't start answering _my questions,_ the only beating that will be done around here is on you!" She turned to Miles and nodded to another room.

"You can search the rest of the house. I'll take care of this."

"He… Hey!" said Cupric. "Don't go away! You can't just leave me alone and search my house!"

"Oh," said Carmelita, "but you're not alone. We're going to spend some quality time together. All right, 'Wallis?"

Miles turned away with a shrug and a smirk. That was rather… abrupt, to be sure, and he didn't think regular police were allowed to do that, but he could understand she was going through some stress with the new changes. If her impatient unrest made the interrogation go any faster, however, he was plenty happy with that. Ignoring the whimpering squeals of fear and barking questions, he moved upstairs, making a beeline for Cupric's bedroom. The walk up was tiring, since the house was terribly large. It muted the noise from downstairs to distant mumbling, and when he moved into one of the main hallways, he was cut off completely. Since the last thing he had heard was some sort of panicked yelp, he didn't think he wanted to know about the rest. The quiet, though, was upsetting as he meandered through the many voluminous, ridiculously attired rooms. It reminded him of walking through an abandoned mansion as a child that he and his family had found while on vacation in Germany. The furniture, arranged by the city owners for show to look natural as though someone lived here (free, self-given tours were the only rule), made a macabre sight of something dead still living in the modern day, and the silence, even in daylight, had been oppressive. The slightest noise in these types of houses put him on edge. The main bedroom came into view. It, like the rest of the house, was spacious and full of knick-knacks, but looked like it belonged in the late 1800's. Coop had spared no expense with the money he skimmed off his dealings.

Shaking his head slightly, and with the fur on the back of his neck up on end from childhood memories, he moved inside. There was a large PC on a dresser nearby, with papers, calling cards, and some open screens on the monitor. Grunting with curiosity, he sat down in front of it and began reading an unfinished e-mail from Cupric himself to an odd address.

Valdez,

Got your mail on TriTech. Damn weird stuff, huh? Got the card here on my desk, the info will be coming to you soon. Things are looking up for you guys with me on your side.

Cupric

Miles rubbed at his nose, then rifled through the morass of papers surrounding the computer. After several minutes of searching, he found the card. It was, as he had expected, a simple business card, with the word "TriTech" in stylish, blocky lettering. A phone number and e-mail were present, of course, as well as the name of the founder.

Richard Gephardt.

Miles pocketed the card and stood up, turning about and finding himself nearly touching the tip of his snout to a very large, very angry looking wolf that was growling quietly at him. He was a full head taller than the fox, and wore clothing to match. It looked remarkably like a standard issue special operations uniform, minus the helmet. Miles looked the buff creature up and down once, then narrowed his eyes as he looked up to match the interloper's gaze.

"Hey there," he said in a low voice. The wolf wordlessly drew back his head and smacked his forehead against Miles', making him stumble backwards into the computer. As the wolf growled and lumbered forward with surprising speed, Miles lowered his head and leaped forward, driving his skull into the wolf's gut, and was met by another painful thump. The wolf was wearing armor under his uniform, and laughed as he brought up his fists, joined them together, and slammed them into the small of Miles' back. He fell to the floor with a gasp, rolling quickly as the wolf snapped his booted foot down to crush his neck, instead grabbing it and shoving upward and back. The wolf took a simple hop backwards, and Miles yanked this time to bring him down as he struggled to his knees, being met with a swift kick to the snout as his opponent fell onto his back. He felt something crumple sickeningly, and fell back to the floor. The wolf chuckled nonchalantly and stood up, watching as Miles forced himself to his feet, whipping out his gun and bringing it up, aiming for a knee that wasn't there. The wolf had already sent another blow with his boot to knock the gun away. Miles fell back against the wall, clutching his stinging paw. The wolf growled and held out his own paws, curling in the fingers in a universal sign.

Bring it on.

Miles charged and threw his right fist forward. The wolf smacked it away and launched another punch, finding with surprise that it was blocked just as easily with a lightning parry from the fox. The wolf was larger, though, and faster. Miles only knew basic self defense and some of the better known Asian fighting techniques. This wolf was a professional.

After a quick flurry of punches and kicks, the wolf lashed out as he saw an opening, and in a show of force grabbed the front of Miles' shirt and lifted him bodily over his head and slamming him into the floor. Miles was winded, but did not let the wolf's momentum carry him. As his attacker sun to deliver a crushing downward kick, Miles sat up and spun on his hip, tripping up the wolf and sending his considerable bulk crashing to the floor. At the back of his mind Miles heard a loud, futuristic zap through the floorboards. Making nothing of it, he dodged back as the wolf sprang back from his leveling, this time with a knife. Miles gulped suddenly, realizing his gun was somewhere in the bathroom and he did not have anything except his bare paws. The wolf sprang forward, slashing outwards. Miles jumped back, but not fast enough, as the knife cut easily through his sweater, slicing cleanly through the flesh in his right forearm. The fox crouched, tense, as the wolf came at him again, swinging the knife. Backing up inches at a time, Miles watched the movements carefully, then snapped his arm out and grabbed the wolf by the wrist. He watched as the other's second fist swung up to dislocate his elbow, and twisted to the wolf's side, kicking a leg out behind and forward to knock the wolf down again. His boot only met air as the wolf jumped up and looped his knife arm around Miles' neck, crushing him against his chest and punching viciously to the fox's face. Miles shoved off to the right through the hail of blows and sent them both to the floor, rolling about as they sought an advantage. From somewhere outside, a motorcycle revved up and zoomed away. Miles soon found himself trapped underneath the wolf, a knife aimed at his heart. Paws grasping the wolf's like a vice, he pushed desperately upwards to no avail. The knife began a shaky, inexorable descent as the wolf put all of his weight into it. Miles' eyes widened and his growl deepened.

He was about to die.

The knife came ever lower, now brushing against his thick sweater, now beginning to slip inside. Miles felt a mild panic begin to envelop the edge of his senses. Sweat beaded on his pores, soaking into this clothing as he groaned with the exertion. The knife was seeking its way through his fur now…

Until suddenly, the wolf's head was tossed to the side like it had been struck with a sledgehammer, then his forehead disintegrated. Blood droplets fell warm onto Miles' face as the wolf fell to the side, the knife falling lifeless from his paws. No last words. No final villainous scowls. Just dead.

Looking up from the grizzly sight, Miles saw Carmelita standing in the doorway, a smoking gun in her paws as she regarded the wolf's carcass. She had a large bruise across her cheek beginning to form, and her hair was not what it had been. A few cuts on her arms and legs were visible. Miles heaved himself up to his feet, clutching his bleeding arm, swaying slightly.

"Well, guess that makes us even…"

"What are you talking about?" said Carmelita in a completely level tone. "You owe _me_ one."

Miles looked at her oddly, waving a paw in the air. "The bomb… last week…?"

Carmelita holstered the gun. "Pssh! As if. Listen 'Wallis, if you think I'm the type to do favors, you have fewer brains than that guy right now." She gestured to the wolf, who was indeed missing much of his brain. "I'm the one that beat off _my _killer, _alone _I might add, in time to save you." Miles only stared at her blandly and sighed, putting his free paw to his aching forehead. Blood dribbled down out of his nose.

"Of course. How could I let myself be distracted with fighting for my life… what happened down there, anyway?"

"What did I just say? You think that wimp down there did this to me?" said Carmelita shortly. "I was attacked."

"I know _that. _But _what happened?"_

Carmelita slumped down on the bed near him, crossing her arms.

"He got away. I took a potshot at him with my shock pistol, but he got away. Coop is hiding somewhere in the living room." Miles' chest tightened considerably.

"There's only one way they could know we were here…" He started forward, Carmelita following behind, raising an eyebrow at how he could still move so fluidly after taking such an obvious beating. She hoped they were forced to beat the information out of the little rat downstairs. She hadn't had a good past few days, and was ready to vent it on the first person to annoy her.

"Cupric!" yelled Miles as he grabbed the terrified rat by the collar of his jacket and slammed him into a wall. "Mind telling us what the hell all this is? Huh? Thought you could pull a fast one on your 'good buddies'? Well!" Cupric shrieked like a woman as Miles swung him around and into another hard surface, a fearsome sight with his blood covered face and paws. They were shallow wounds, and he wasn't letting them slow him down. The rat in his grasp held his paws to shield his face as he babbled an explanation.

"I… I didn't know they'd be here! I didn't say… didn't… nobody told me… you gotta believe me!"

"Who were they, Coop? How much did they buy you for?"

"I was never paid by those guys! I… I talked to someone else!"

"Did you ever check? Did you ever think? Or are you lying again?" snarled Miles as he dragged Cupric over to the kitchen, whereupon the rat noticed some very sharp things he had left lying around. He screeched and struggled even more, earning himself a kick in the backside from Carmelita, who growled at him to keep his voice down. Miles picked up the rat again and shouted into his terrified face.

"Do you know, Cupric? _Do you know?"_

"N… no! I never wanted this!"

"Who were you talking to?" He shook the rat. "Who!"

"Some… some bigwig who wanted recon on a place called TriTech! That's all I know!"

"Did they say anything about Sly Cooper?" said Carmelita, arms crossed. Cupric shook his head.

"They didn't tell me nothin'! Paid me good, that's about it! I just did what I always did!"

"Listen bud, if you don't give us something _useful-"_

"I can't! Don't ask, don't tell! You know!"

Miles suddenly grabbed Cupric by the neck, led him to a burner that was on, and shoved up his snout an inch away from it. Carmelita raised her eyebrows. She never would have done something quite like _that._

"Don't make me get rough…"

"_I don't know!" _shouted the rat rather pitifully. Miles relented and dropped him back onto the floor. Placing his paws on his hips, he turned to Carmelita.

"I got a calling card for this TriTech place. Peter!" he shouted into thin air.

"Yeah?" came the crackling in Miles' ear. "Get a rundown on a company called TriTech. Founder: Richard Gephardt."

"On it. Interesting job with Cupric there…"

"Ah, you just gotta know how to talk to them."

He looked back at Fox.

"I think that's all we can get out of this place."

"How do we know he won't prosecute?"

Miles looked back at the whimpering rat on the floor. "We keep a very close eye on him. He won't be going anywhere. Now come on, let's go. Bleeding isn't the most fun way to pass the time."

He swayed as he went to the door, falling against the wall as he grabbed at his arm, which was bleeding copiously. The adrenaline was gone now, and a cold sweat washed over him, making him feel like he had been dumped into ice water. Carmelita instinctively grabbed him about the shoulders to keep him from falling to the floor.

"I'll drive," she said. Miles looked questioningly up at her, and she smiled wryly.

"Can't let a wounded partner cart me around. My reputation isn't all bad, you know. Let's get you patched up first… can't have you bleeding all over my suede leather."


End file.
